Amigos
by The Real Muse
Summary: So you thought the Ghostbusters were always friends? Guess again! When Peter and Egon are assigned to share a lab, Columbia University will never be the same! Continued on my home website
1. Default Chapter

WARNING: Contains non-graphic intimations of college naughtiness. (Non- slash) High PG rating recommended.  
  
Amigos  
  
By: CindyR  
  
The old leather chair creaked loudly as Peter shifted his position, his pose deceptively - and deliberately - casual. His polite smile betrayed none of the excitement that even now raced like fire through his veins at what old Professor McKenna was saying.  
  
"... saw merit in your work," McKenna droned on, his wrinkled face formed in stern lines. "Of course, your own research will be secondary to the main project, that of investigating the structure and substance of dreams and sleep."  
  
Peter crossed his legs at the knee, again eliciting another squeak from the chair. "That is my main field of interest," he admitted, carefully schooling his features into something akin to professional neutrality. "My Masters thesis revolved around the correlation between sleep disorders and primary psychosis. And may I say, sir, that working with an acknowledged authority such as yourself on this project is quite an honor. Your expertise on the subject is acclaimed throughout the scientific community."  
  
McKenna visibly preened under the flattery. "Well, I suppose I have made some modest contributions in my time." He ran one hand through his thinning white hair and sat up straighter in his chair. "Perhaps we can find time to investigate a few of your branch projects," he relented, "so long as we have results to show in return for the grant money each quarter."  
  
"Understood, sir." Peter hid a smile at how easy it was to maneuver McKenna, though adding to himself that not all of what he had said was precisely flattery - Professor Andrew McKenna was an expert in the field of sleep research. Who knew? Maybe he'd pick up something from the old SOB after all ... or maybe McKenna would end up learning something from Peter Venkman!  
  
"Lab space is of course limited," McKenna went on, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. "However, there is space in Weaver Hall, Lab 14. It's small but quite adequate for your part in the overall project." He rose, waiting until Peter had scrambled politely to his own feet before adding, "I'll take you over there myself and acquaint you with the way things work. I'd like to prevent any ... 'incidents' from occurring at this early stage."  
  
"Incidents?" Pete echoed with credible ignorance. "Why, whatever do you mean, sir?"  
  
McKenna paused, studying Peter closely. Peter contrived to look innocent. "Your reputation does precede you even here, young man," the Professor said, his keen gray eyes sweeping Peter from the thick brown hair that curled over his collar, to the dirty sneakers on his feet. "Practical jokes and parties, from what I've been given to understand." He held up a hand, forestalling Peter's automatic protest. "However, your grades are consistently of the highest order, and so long as you maintain a certain respectability when associated with my department, you'll find me more than tolerant of your personal life." He grinned sheepishly, giving Peter a wide view of his yellowed dentures. "Or, as you young people might say, I'm real groovy!"  
  
Peter nodded solemnly while privately hoping the old bird stayed cool - or at least graduated out of the 1960's sometime soon. An inveterate prankster, hellraiser and hard-nose partier, Peter had caught it from nearly every other teacher he'd ever worked with, and only the fact that he was a strictly 'A' student had prevented him being dismissed from Columbia some years before for his more celebrated escapades. He decided he'd take it easy with the old man for awhile - at least until he'd gotten a better scope of the system. Then watch out Weaver! Peter Venkman was here to play!  
  
Peter followed McKenna meekly enough as the two made their way out of the main administration center and across the campus. He breathed deeply, sucking in an interesting lungfull of summer blossoms fused with New York smog; apparently, Manhattan was growing even dirtier despite President Ford's clean air policies. Having been born and raised in Brooklyn, however, Peter dismissed the fact as beneath his notice and resolved to escape to the beach at least one more time before the autumn chill set in.  
  
McKenna chatted amiably as they walked, filling Peter in on the overall goals of his project - that of better understanding the mechanisms which controlled sleep and dreams - then describing the other permanent members of the staff. Some of them Peter was already acquainted with. Sam Cage, for example, was head of the team that investigated the physical structure of the brain, paying particular attention to mapping the areas which controlled the sleep process. A stuffy, prissy man, Peter immediately marked Professor Cage as one to watch - and torment - as the opportunity arose.  
  
Dr. Gainscott was another participant Peter would watch, though her far more gladly. A thirty-one year old bio-chem professor, Marian Gainscott's field was the study of the chemical systems which activated dreams and thought during sleep, working with memory as a necessary side element. She was also, Peter readily admitted, one of the most beautiful women on campus. Her cool intellect had successfully withstood Peter's not- inconsiderable charm when he was her biology student; now that they were on more or less equal footing, Peter expected things to be different and was quite willing to invest a little effort into the alterations.  
  
"Hi, Pete!" someone yelled, interrupting this pleasant train of thought. Peter turned, nodding at the two mini-skirted coed types who were waving frantically for attention. Peter waved back, nearly tripping over the petite redhead who was tapping him on the arm.  
  
"We still on for tonight, Peter?" she asked, not breaking her stride.  
  
"Pick you up at eight, Adrienne!" Peter yelled, watching her trim form disappear into the crowd. He moved on, acknowledging greetings as he and the Professor made their way across the busy grounds.  
  
"You certainly are a popular young man," McKenna commented, stepping back to allow half the football team to thunder by, slapping Peter on the back as they passed. "How did you get acquainted with so many people and still maintain a ninety-six per cent average?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "Hard work and dedication," he answered piously, inwardly adding the words near photographic memory to the equation. Any edges, however, were nobody's business but his own.  
  
Weaver Hall was a venerable building occupying a respectable portion of expensive Manhattan real estate; it housed the University psychology department and assorted associated ventures within its stone walls. McKenna and Venkman made their way through the large front door, took the stairs to the third floor then turned left. Peter's head swung in rapid succession left and right, absorbing every sight, sound and scent of the structure. To think that he, Peter Charles Venkman, son of an ex-chorus girl/waitress and present down-on-his-luck conman, would be walking the halls of prestigious Columbia University heading for his very own research lab! Something tightened in his chest as he remembered the look in his father's eyes when Peter had told him that his son had been accepted to Columbia - the pure pride and open love that made up for all the Christmases the older man had ever missed ... well, almost. Peter's mother had learned to hate Charlie Venkman, her own loneliness turning her bitter by degrees. Peter, however, had learned to accept Charlie as he was - a tumbleweed without roots, an absent father - and a man who loved his only son dearly.  
  
McKenna stopped before a smoked glass door bearing the number fourteen above it in faded gold leaf. It swung open at a touch and Peter got his first look inside. It was a tiny affair, barely twelve-by-twelve, and stuffed full of two cheap desks, several filing cabinets and a shelf of books. One side of the room was partitioned off, giving the illusion of privacy, unidentified clutter barely visible through the glass divider.  
  
Movement from the far corner drew his attention and Peter turned, his jaw dropping at the sight of the tall, lanky man seated at the far desk, a half- eaten donut caught between his teeth. "Who are you?" Peter blurted. "What are you doing in my office?"  
  
Eyes the color of a winter's sky widened at that. The stranger very deliberately replaced his donut on the paper plate, then used a napkin to wipe his powdery lips. This accomplished, he adjusted his gold-wire spectacles higher on his nose and leaned his head back the better to peer into Peter's face. "What is the meaning of this, Professor McKenna?" he rumbled in a not-unpleasant bass. "I don't believe this ... gentleman has been introduced."  
  
Peter closed his mouth, the subtle emphasis on the noun not escaping his notice. McKenna used the brief pause to step forward, both hands raised. "Peter Venkman, I'd like you to meet Dr. Egon Spengler. You and Egon will be sharing the lab." He returned Peter's dismayed look with a frown. "I did tell you that lab space was limited," he said apologetically. "And you are the most junior member on staff. Surely you knew you wouldn't have a lab to yourself?"  
  
Peter clamped hard on his disappointment, schooling his features into a polite mask. Never show weakness, he reminded himself harshly, not unless it was going to get you something. No sense letting these dweebs know something like this was bothering him now. He dredged up a smile for the professor, turning it also on his new 'roommate,' Egon Spengler - Doctor Egon Spengler - even as the man rose from his chair. He was tall, topping Peter's six foot height by a good three inches. Blond hair worn short in the back, long on top, waved over his forehead in a violent curl, a coiffure that would have made Peter snicker had McKenna not been present.  
  
Bristling at the frank scrutiny, Spengler pulled himself up to his full height, adjusting his flawless suit jacket with one hand, smoothing his unwrinkled charcoal slacks with the other. The calculated gesture served its purpose, and Peter felt himself cringe, acutely aware of the battered jeans and red cotton shirt he had donned this morning. Then he spotted it - the little white pen protector in Egon's breast pocket, the heads of several ballpoints sticking up over the material - and Peter relaxed, confident once more. Geek accessories. Of course the guy was a geek. No threat whatsoever except maybe to Peter's reputation once word got out who he was stuck sharing digs with.  
  
"Dr. Spengler joined us last year, a transfer from MIT," McKenna was saying in a rush, obviously sensing the automatic mutual dislike. "He already has one Ph.D. in physics, and he's working on the second one in Ancient Languages. But since M.I.T. doesn't carry a course in parapsychology, Egon was forced to transfer here if he wanted a degree in that area."  
  
"You sound like a brochure," Peter muttered. Then it hit him. "Hey, wait a minute - did you say parapsychology? Since when does Columbia allocate labspace to that kind of mumbo-jumbo crap? I thought we were supposed to be doing serious research here."  
  
Spengler's long face blossomed two spots of crimson over his cheekbones. "Parapsychology is hardly a pseudo-science any more," he reproved sternly. "According to the latest research, the paranormal...."  
  
"Is a bunch of hoke," Peter interrupted, crinkling his nose. "Hey if there's one thing in this world I do know, it's a good scam."  
  
"That I have not trouble at all believing," Spengler sneered, earning a piercing glare from Peter.  
  
McKenna raised both hands placatingly. "Dr. Spengler is here because parapsychological studies come under the auspices of the psychology department, even though his approach is on a purely physical level."  
  
Whatever that means, Peter thought scornfully.  
  
Spengler pursed his full lips thoughtfully. "At this point I'm attempting to discover some of the physical variations measurable in paranormal phenomena, as well as to continue the work of Professor Seldon, who theorized the existence of inter-dimensional nexus with the resultant wide- spectrum particle emission."  
  
An egghead as well as a geek, Peter decided instantly. He forced another smile and took McKenna by the arm. "May I speak to you in the hall, sir? Privately?" As he hustled the older man out Peter couldn't resist the urge to offer over his shoulder one parting shot. "Love the hair," he commented with mild acid.  
  
"Why does this place smell like Eau de Cheap Cologne?" Spengler wondered just loud enough for Peter to hear.  
  
Peter slammed the door. Hard.  
  
The hallway was beginning to bustle as nine a.m. approached, and Peter realized that the Spengler guy must have been in the lab for some time already, judging by the remains of breakfast. He slumped against the closed door, jutting out one hip. "You're not really serious about all this sh-- ... er, malarkey, are you, Prof?" he asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, like, man, that guy is so deep space you could use him for an asteroid."  
  
McKenna leaned closer, waiting until a group of lab-coated students had passed before answering. "Between us, Mr. Venkman," he began in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm not much of a believer in ... such things, either, though Professor Broadwell, who teaches Folklore, Myths and Legends among his other courses, is somewhat respected in the ... er ... field, and I know Pauline Markowicz, over in Primitive Cultures, personally; brilliant woman. However, Dr. Spengler's research has been confined to physics and higher mathematics, though it incorporates elements of our own discipline. I wouldn't have allowed it in my department at all except...." He spread his hands helplessly. "Dr. Spengler's family is quite wealthy, and wields great influence with the Board of Trustees. I wanted to cooperate so...."  
  
That brought Peter erect, green eyes blazing. "You mean he bought his way in?" he asked, choosing a scandalized tone as one best suitable to the occasion. Privately, he wished he could have afforded to do so and saved himself several years' work.  
  
McKenna shrugged huffily. "Not at all. That was not a primary consideration." I'll bet, Peter thought. "I don't want you to think that Dr. Spengler is anything but a legitimate scientist. I've read his thesis on poly-dimensional physics ... what I understood of it. It's considered absolutely brilliant, opening up several new directions of energy research."  
  
"But he's a geek!" Peter cried, sensing the dispute getting away from him.  
  
Mckenna stiffened. "It's hardly reason to dismiss the man out of hand simply because he doesn't measure up to your social standards. His I.Q. is well above genius level, you know."  
  
Peter wilted, hearing in McKenna's tone the final judgment on the matter. "You're quite right, sir," he agreed heartily, pulling his cheerful facade back into place. "I'm certain we'll get along famously."  
  
That seemed to satisfy the old man. "I'm certain as well," he returned, obviously relieved that the situation was not going to escalate. "Let me know if you need anything to get started. I've already approved your direction of inquiry; you can begin assembling materials immediately." He made to move off, then stopped and turned back. "Oh, departmental review is Friday; that'll give you time to adjust to your co-workers."  
  
Peter smiled again, waving amiably at McKenna's disappearing back. As soon as the man turned the first corner Peter's smile faded into a scowl. Not his own lab after all, he groused, automatically tucking in his shirt before reentering the room, but a shared lab with a shared geek. He squared his shoulders and reached resolutely for the door. "Better show him who's boss right now," he grumbled, "and avoid a hassle later on down the line."  
  
***  
  
Egon watched the door close, fighting the sinking feeling expanding in his gut. Of all the cretins McKenna might have chosen to pair him with, the professor had had to select the campus clown. Despite his earlier implication, Egon had heard of Peter Venkman - all of Columbia recognized the too-handsome face and cocky swagger on sight. The man had a reputation for fast living, wooing the coeds, throwing the best parties on campus ... but not a word said regarding academic achievement, almost as though it were some kind of well-kept secret. Egon wondered what technique Venkman had used to scam his way into kindly old Professor McKenna's graces - and from there into Egon's lab.  
  
He sighed and dropped his book back to the desk, vowing to return to it as soon as his next class was over. Vodrovski's latest report postulated measurable energy fluctuations on an inter-dimensional scale, speculation which paralleled Egon's own research to an amazing degree. Egon smiled to himself, the words Nobel Prize dancing briefly across the fabric of his admittedly bland imagination. Someday that prize would be his - not to mention proper recognition from a community that had done little save sneer at his directions of research. And if a Nobel Prize didn't satisfy his hard to please father, nothing ever would!  
  
He traced his upper lip with his forefinger, his ears pricking at the low murmur from beyond the door. Venkman's voice was nearly audible even through the smoked glass, a clear, mellow tenor that well fit the humorous cast to his features. Egon sighed aloud. Better establish himself as senior labmember immediately, he thought, and prevent any future complications before they arose. Time to be firm but fair.  
  
He rose to pace the cramped quarters only to turn back a moment later as the door reopened and Venkman stepped back into the room. The two eyed each other warily, predators summing up the opposition. That Peter Venkman was a handsome devil was beyond dispute: rich brown hair waved back from a narrow face and was combed to the side. The man's strong jaw belied the almost-pretty features; that evidence of strength gave Egon momentary pause. Egon found himself staring into a pair of sharp green eyes and stiffened, surprising a spark of intelligence in their depths that he would not have credited the man from his reputation alone. Then it was gone and that fatuous, 'I'm just along for the ride' expression was back in place.  
  
"Looks like it's gonna be you an' me, bro," Venkman drawled, his light New York accent clipping his words short. "Guess we're just gonna have to get used it."  
  
"I'm certain we can manage to stay out of each other's way," Egon replied coolly, determining to establish his authority from the beginning. He straightened, staring down at the younger man from his superior height. Venkman didn't withdraw a single inch. "At this point I'm doing more pen and paper calculation than experimental. Later, of course, I'll be installing some testing equipment that will require additional space."  
  
"Space may be at a premium around here," Venkman retorted, giving the co- joined desks a hearty kick. Green eyes flashed in his direction and Egon felt himself being summed up as well. He ran a hand down his expensive sports jacket, unostentatiously straightening the school tie that had cost his father what to this man would have been a veritable fortune. The intimation was obvious as was the repeated contrast with Venkman's appearance. The implied insult registered as the barest flicker in that deceptively expressive face, and Egon had to withhold the urge to gloat; then Venkman subtly shifted his stance, the muscles in his arms bulging ever so slightly - and it was Egon's turn to deflate. There was disapproval in the other man's unshielded expression; Egon knew how he felt - he couldn't stand Peter Venkman, either.  
  
"I suppose you're going to need to know the directions of my present undertaking," he began by way of a conversational gambit. "I'm striving to measure any confluences of nether-dimensional entities upon the terrain environment...."  
  
Peter, in the act of inspecting the underside of a chair, straightened slowly, incredulity in his expression. "Wait a minute," he protested loudly. "Nether.... Are you trying to tell me you're chasing ghosts?!"  
  
A slow flush worked its burning way up Egon's neck, staining his thin cheeks crimson. "That is only a layman's term," he corrected haughtily, annoyed at the glee shining in his opponent's eyes and even more annoyed with himself for reacting to it. "I can explain some of the equipment...."  
  
Venkman held up a hand, cutting him off. "No need, Casper," he said, strolling to the unoccupied desk and opening a drawer. "'Cause I don't really want to know. I'll need that cubbyhole ..." He pointed to the minuscule glassed-in area in the far corner, at present filled to bursting with Egon's personal reference library. "... and some periodic quiet. I start interviewing candidates for the project's sleep research program next week."  
  
Egon sighed, feeling the privacy he'd come to depend on dissolving in a wash of brown hair and white teeth. "You can have the cubicle," he conceded with bad grace. "You may have to put up with some noise next Wednesday, though; I'm having a computer installed that day. It'll occupy most of the area between our desks."  
  
That won Venkman's attention. "You're own?" he asked, obviously impressed despite himself. "You won't be drawing time in the computer labs?" Egon shook his head. Venkman blinked once before the casual facade slammed down again, wiping away all traces of admiration. "Good," he finished. "That means more on-line time for me." He paused, a bright smile barely hiding the steel. "Looks like we'll have to make a few adjustments, Casper."  
  
"I'm perfectly willing, of course," Egon acknowledged, suddenly realizing what the term 'hell on earth' meant, "providing you stop calling me 'Casper.'" Venkman grinned brightly and busied himself with exploring the modest space, while Egon sighed, resigning himself to a very long year.  
  
***  
  
The next few days marked the official beginning of the new semester and were busy ones for the two young men. Venkman's first official duty was to attend the weekly staff meeting, scheduled for every Friday. Though the youngest member of the team - and possessor of the newest Masters degree - he immediately took the place of honor near the head of the table, dispossessing an irritated looking Cage, who was forced to find a seat elsewhere. Here, Peter was given a more intensive overview of the goals of each segment of the research team. Approximately twenty people attended the meeting, including the half-dozen men and women who headed their individual sections and explained their roles in the project. Sam Cage went first, tersely explaining his plans to graph the human mind one section at a time. He was using apes at present, concluding with, "... but I plan to graduate to a human brain in the very near future."  
  
Peter very politely mentioned that he would be looking forward to seeing that. Cage sat down, a puzzled frown etching his craggy brows at the low guffaws from the rest of the room.  
  
John Irwin was next, a short, heavy-set man in his late twenties whose published work on phobia generation was one Peter had read often and with real pleasure. Irwin swelled under the praise, then ceded the floor to Marian Gainscott, who accepted center stage with poised aplomb. Peter leaned forward.  
  
"A pleasure to see you again, Peter," she greeted him courteously. "You're aware of my work, I know, so I won't bore you with more than the basics. I've spent the last ten years of my life studying the electro-biochemical stimuli which make up the phenomenon men call thought, particularly with reference to the chemical changes that take place during the sleeping state. I'll require access to the profiles you'll be composing on the subjects, then I'll be running full bio-med scans on them all. I'm working closely with Professor Cage ..."  
  
"Lucky, lucky man," Peter interjected with a smile.  
  
"... and we'll probably be sharing test subjects after you're through with their work-up," she concluded. She seated herself serenely, ignoring Peter's twitching eyebrows. "Any questions?"  
  
"Actually I do," Peter said, pursing his lips. "I've been looking for a bit more information on the chemical processes involved in theta wave production. I was hoping to discuss it with you...."  
  
"I'll interoffice you my latest brief on the subject," Gainscott offered, waving away the offer. "You'll have it within the week."  
  
"But I might have questions," Peter volleyed smoothly. "It would be far more logical if you brought it yourself."  
  
Gainscott sighed, then nodded. "Very well. Brief questions."  
  
As there was nothing more to be said on this subject, the other team leaders followed in close succession, outlining their own research. McKenna was striving for a more coordinated approach than was being carried out on any other campus, and made no bones about telling Peter so.  
  
"It'll mean correlating all information discovered through the main committee," he said, gesturing at the faces girding the round conference table. "That means us. There'll be no room for grandstanding or solo runs so long as you're drawing grant money from this project."  
  
"Of course not, sir," Peter replied smoothly, rising to his feet. "I'm quite adept at pulling my share of the team load." He ignored Cage's snort, fixing his gaze on a tall, afro-haired male chemist in the corner. "As you probably know by now, I'll be keeping the psych profiles on all test subjects, then doing the psychological analyses of any dreams they might have. This should give us some kind of insight on the effect of a man's mental state on dream production ... or vise versa. I'll probably end up running the most of them through intensive analysis at one point or another, too. I want to see what makes these people tick ... before I hand them over to Cage for dissection."  
  
That won some laughs from the audience and an offended protest from Cage. Peter concluded with. "I look forward to working with all of you," then reseated himself, the very picture of professionalism.  
  
McKenna nodded his approval and rose. "Very good, gentlemen. Let's discuss funding...."  
  
Spengler's computer was delivered as promised, a large, ungainly piece that occupied all of the floorspace behind the two desks. Programming, however, was another matter, and he was finally forced to appeal to the computer arts center for assistance. This arrived in the rather unlikely form of Arturo Beneditti, a twenty-five year old electrical engineer whose young face was locked into the stony grain of the perpetually grim.  
  
"Yep," Beneditti had said upon hearing Egon's proposed study. "Computers have come a long way from the old magnetic tape babies of the 50's and 60's, but you still have to be a rocket scientist to operate 'em." He sighed, an expression crossing his face as close to bliss as he was ever likely to get. "Ahhhh, but give us another ten-fifteen years and we'll have programs sitting on grocery shelves for you. Easy word processing, catalogues, encyclopedias...."  
  
"All I'm interested in right now," Egon said, earning himself a disapproving glance, "is one that will allow me to work multidimensional tensors without pretending it's arithmetic." He patted the monitor gently then brandished a stack of papers completely covered with equations.  
  
Beneditti rubbed his hands together gleefully, his muddy brown eyes beginning to glow. "I think I know just the trick, Egon. Hand me that first disk, please...."  
  
Peter found them two hours later, connectors scattered across the floor, gleaming black disks littering both desks. Both men were seated before the monitor, taking turns tapping on the single keyboard.  
  
"... if I want to run a simulation on...." Egon was saying. He looked up as the door opened, offering Peter a polite nod. "Ah, Venkman, you're just in time. Arturo, I'd like you to meet my ... labmate, Peter Venkman."  
  
"'Meet 'cha," Peter grumbled out of habit.  
  
Beneditti glanced up, obviously annoyed at the interruption. "How do you do," he returned, scratching his head roughly. Stiff black hair stood up in all directions as a result, combining with his squat frame and long arms to make him resemble a large orangutan. "Are you going to be running this baby too?"  
  
Peter glanced over Beneditti's shoulder and snickered. "Sorry, man," he said, waving his hands, "but spook spotting just isn't my bag, dig what I'm saying? I'm into, like, more mundane stuff, like real science."  
  
"Spook spotting?" Beneditti asked, shooting Egon an inquiring look. "As in ghosts?" Egon shrugged, and the computer specialist grew, if possible, even grimmer. "I thought you were a scientist. If you're trying to pull my leg...."  
  
"Mister Venkman," Egon interrupted tersely, "is the one who enjoys a good joke. My doctorate is from M.I.T. and it's in physics. Paraphysics is a possible application. And a scientist," he stressed the word, a jerk of the thumb adding further emphasis, "is willing to explore any direction in his quest for knowledge. Isn't that right Mister Venkman? As Professor Einstein once said...."  
  
Peter smirked and wandered over to the grouped file cabinets in the corner. "Einstein," he interjected sweetly, "was a dork."  
  
Egon drew himself straight, eyes flashing. "Professor Einstein was the greatest genius this world has ever known."  
  
Peter waved a negligent hand, though one brown brow rose. "Do tell. But please go on - I have some scientist stuff to do before I start profiling next week."  
  
"Hmph," was Beneditti's only response. Moments later Peter was ensconced behind something called the Minnesota Multiphasic Psychological Evaluation, and the blond and black heads had returned to the screen as though Peter never existed at all.  
  
This state of affairs lasted nearly an hour longer, all three men looking up when there was a tap at the door. "Commmmme iiii-innn," Peter sang, finger combing his collar-length hair into order. There was a pause then the door opened to admit the lush form of Marian Gainscott, wearing a white labcoat and bearing a notebook. Peter leaped to his feet. "Marian! What a wonderful surprise."  
  
Gainscott stared at him, puzzled. "What surprise?" she asked. "You asked me to bring these briefs by. Did you forget?"  
  
Peter smiled. "As if I could ever forget you, Marian. Please come in."  
  
The woman gave the room a cool glance as she entered, her blue eyes sweeping both Beneditti and Spengler once, the moving on. "If you're busy...." she began, tossing back a strand of rich brown hair.  
  
"Never too busy for someone as lovely as you, my dear." Venkman retreated to the glass cubical, returning with a straight-backed chair. This he placed inches from his own, gesturing the woman to it. "Have a seat."  
  
"Thank you." She remained standing, however, looking Peter up and down speculatively. "You realize that you raised a lot of hackles at the staff meeting Friday? I'm still not sure how you managed to appropriate such a large chunk of the grant money for your program, but you have Sam Cage absolutely livid about it."  
  
Peter grinned. "Sam Cage is a squirrel on a trainer wheel. McKenna pulls the strings and he runs like a rodent. Forget him and sit down - I'm sure we have much to discuss. And may I say you're looking particularly beautiful today?"  
  
Gainscott ignored that. She eyed the chair suspiciously, then turned her attention to the remaining two men, who were returning her regard with precisely the same shade of appreciation that shone in Peter's green eyes. "I don't believe we've met," she reminded Peter.  
  
Peter snapped out of his trance, transferring his soppy grin to the men. "Uh ... right. Dr. Marian Gainscott - Egon Spengler, Ar-- ... Ar--...."  
  
"Arturo Beneditti," Beneditti supplied, pronouncing his name with Neapolitan flair. "Very pleased to meet you, madam."  
  
"Likewise." Egon stepped around the short Italian, offering Gainscott his hand. "I've heard magnificent things about your work in the field of bio- chemistry. Your findings are respected in many journals."  
  
Much to Peter's obvious astonishment, the woman students had nicknamed "The Ice Virgin" - though never to her face - smiled prettily, touching her hair in a decidedly feminine gesture. "Why, thank you, Mr. Spengler. I have had some wonderful response to the article on chemical receptors."  
  
"But you're here to discuss new advances rather than old, aren't you?" Peter interjected, forcibly reclaiming the conversation. "The brief?"  
  
Marian's face closed up, her smile turning frosty. "Yes, of course, Peter." She paused to offer Spengler another little look. "Perhaps we'll be able to discuss the article ... another time, Mr. Spengler?"  
  
Full lips parted in a boyish smile. "I'd like that very much. But it's Doctor Spengler," he corrected her gently. "And I'd be pleased if you would call me Egon."  
  
"Egon." Marian nodded then turned away. She pulled the chair Peter had provided back precisely two feet, edging it to the side of the desk, then seated herself, tugging her skirt down over her shapely knees. "As you said, Peter, about that brief. I'd like to get started right away. I've got tickets to the Met this evening."  
  
"The Mets?" Peter asked, frowning. "It's not baseball season yet."  
  
"The Met," Gainscott corrected, rolling her eyes. "The concert? The New York Philharmonic will be performing Bach's Brandenberg Symphony."  
  
"You'll be attending this evening?" Egon asked, interrupting Beneditti without remorse. "Quite serendipitous, Dr. Gainscott. I, too, shall be attending the symphony this evening.  
  
"You like Bach?" Gainscott asked, twisting in her seat until she could see him clearly.  
  
"I like Bach, too," Peter piped up eagerly. "All his ... er ... movements and everything."  
  
"I've always liked Bach," Egon returned, ignoring Peter. "I've had tickets for almost two months for this evening's performance." He cleared his throat, fingering his tie. "I don't suppose you would care to ... accompany me this evening? Perhaps we could get a little dinner ahead of time?"  
  
A becoming flush touched Gainscott's cheeks. She nodded. "Pick me up at seven," she said, her smile not frosty at all. "Now Peter, about that brief...."  
  
"What brief?" Peter grumbled sourly, green eyes promising retribution and fixed firmly on Egon Spengler. 


	2. Chapter 2

Once the computer was programmed properly, Spengler immersed himself in long sessions of esoteric equations, spending all of his days and many of his evening hours attached to the screen. He grudgingly broke his concentration to teach the classes required of him, less reluctantly to attend the ones he'd signed up for - Medieval Cabalistic Practices, Celtic Rituals, Ancient Religions - or to accompany Marian Gainscott to a concert or the opera. Large tomes began to choke the office again, bearing such titles as Paranormal Investigations of the Modern World, Forgotten Tongues of Sumeria, and Fungi of South America, the latter the result of a new field of interest for the eclectic man - mycology. When asked about the seemingly unrelated fields, he would only reply that mushrooms were "interesting," that reading ancient manuscripts could come in handy some day and say not another word on the subject.  
  
Carrying a double major didn't seem to bother the man from all outward indications; rather, he reveled in the study and thrived on the research. Vodrovski's publication had opened up new vistas in the field of psychic research, and all across the world scattered experiments were even now being conducted if only on a minor scale, the seedlings of a future exact science. Egon's gifts for mathematics stood him in good stead in this fledgling discipline, and he expressed aloud the hope of actually making contact with those dimensions beyond our own.  
  
"What I'm working on," he mentioned to Peter one day in a rare burst of camaraderie, "is discovering a means to measure the etheric warping effect caused by psycho-magnatheric emissions, as postulated by Seldon over a decade ago. If I can locate a substance which will react to these as apart from strictly terran energies, I'll be in a position to move on to the next step."  
  
"Unless only energy reacts to that type of energy," Peter had replied thoughtfully, momentarily intrigued despite himself. "'Course you'll have to test materials anyway if only to eliminate them."  
  
Egon looked startled. "That is the next logical step towards detecting ghosts," he acknowledged, at which Peter had begun to whistle the theme to The Twilight Zone, effectively ending the conversation.  
  
Peter on the other hand divided his time more equally. Days were consumed by his own courses of learning, such as Philosophy and an advanced bio-chem class taught by Marian Gainscott - both of which he hated - intermixed by setting up the psychological testing procedures he would be using and recording the preliminary results in meticulous logs. He was frequently heard to grumble, "I am never gonna take notes on anything ever again once I'm out'a here!" - an oath fervently believed by anyone who heard it.  
  
McKenna assigned him several classes as well, beginning and intermediate psychology designed for the freshman and sophomore who had not yet decided which branches of the science to pursue. Venkman's teaching style was open and breezy but effective, his lectures interspersed with jokes, sports metaphors and experiences that kept his students amused. They garnered consistently high grades, however, and Peter quickly acquired a reputation on campus as a good teacher, much to his own astonishment.  
  
Evenings, however, belonged to Peter. The frat house Phi Kappa Nu had named Peter a life-long hero of the people and permanent resident, an option Peter chose to exercise for a couple of months to save expenses in the hopes of purchasing a used car by the next year. His schooling might be paid for, but there was no way a poor kid from the wrong side of Brooklyn could handle an apartment, car and classes. Set up at good old "Try Cuppa Brew" with free board, frat buddies and all the parties he could handle, Peter Venkman considered himself a very lucky man indeed.  
  
Despite the fact that Egon had loaded nine-tenths of his reference library into the little Volvo he owned and carted it to the one bedroom flat he rented off campus, the lab was cramped, the close quarters eliciting many arguments and heated tempers. For the most part, though, the two men ignored each other with a grandeur that defied all intercession: Egon continued to work on his computer, equation after equation taking form under his long fingers. Peter's interviews occupied much of his time, the test subjects passing from his evaluation to Cage to Gainscott and around the circle, returning to him at every step of the way for re-evaluation and analysis, the results to be shared at the staff meetings held every week.  
  
It was in this way that time passed, the two men existing in a state of detente, the only words passing between them abrasive. To onlookers, it seemed that open warfare could not be far away.  
  
***  
  
Peter ambled slowly across campus toward his next class, already regretting the lame-brained impulse that had made him sign up for the advanced course in Criminology for the extra credits. Not that it wouldn't be useful to know, he thought to himself, especially for the next time Dad gets in trouble. Know thine enemy and all that.  
  
This thought brought a little smile to his lips as he noted the phraseology. The next time Dad got into trouble - not if. But that was a fact Peter had faced a long time ago: Charlie Venkman was a con man, that was how he made his living albeit meagerly, and how he'd paid Peter's way through the first four years of college. Peter had not asked where the money had come from, knowing from past experience that he did not truly want to know. All that was important was that Peter had made it into Columbia, bringing pride to Charlie's washed out green eyes whenever he saw his son. That pride meant everything in the world to Peter.  
  
At his side, her fingers twined firmly in his, walked Peter's girl-of-the- moment, Corinne Madigan. Corinne was tall and beautiful, and had been going out with Peter for nearly a month - a respectable time period considering Peter's recent track record with women. Scantily clad despite the autumn chill, she leaned closer, rubbing her well-endowed body against Peter's; Peter decided he liked the no-bra look very well indeed. "So how 'bout it, Petey?" she asked, not noticing Peter's grimace at the pet name. "Want to come to my parents' for dinner Saturday? I know they'd just love to meet you."  
  
I bet they would, Peter thought with humorous sarcasm. Hey, Dad, come and meet the guy I'm sleeping with this week! He shook himself out of this mood, turning his patented mega-watt smile on her. "I'd love to, doll, really I would, but this Saturday is a no-go. My Dad is coming to town and we're probably going to take in a game."  
  
"Oh." She pouted prettily for a moment, then brightened. "Oh, well, there's always next week, right?"  
  
"Right," Peter agreed, wondering how he was going to get out of "next week" without messing up his chances of taking Corinne to the Sigma Chi party on the fourth. He postponed the problem temporarily when Corinne tightened her grip on his arm, leaning closer to whisper in his ear. "Hey, Petey, want to see something funny?"  
  
"Like what?" Peter asked, always willing to be amused.  
  
"See that guy over there?" She jerked one red-painted thumbnail to a figure sitting crosslegged under an ancient elm tree some twenty yards to their left. It was a young man, Peter noted, a boy of about eighteen with the muscular shoulders and arms of one who has done strenuous labor for a good part of his life. Closer examination revealed the muscles starting to soften, however, probably with the lack of physical exercise that so often accompanied academe. Shaggy auburn hair fell forward over a round face, and Peter was curiously disappointed when he could not find freckles decorating the boy's snub nose.  
  
"That's Ray Stantz," Corinne was explaining softly. "He's helping me out with my calculus class."  
  
"Little young for one of your classes, isn't he?" Peter asked. Corinne was twenty-one.  
  
"Not for super-brain there." The woman sniffed, tossing back a strand of curly blonde hair. "He even made it into Dr. Spengler's physics class this semester, and you know how hard that is!"  
  
"Yeah, a real treat," Peter muttered darkly.  
  
"Anyway," Corinne went on, paying him no mind, "I'm having trouble with Calculus - no head for figures, you know?"  
  
"With a figure like that...." Peter began, slipping his arm around her tiny waist.  
  
Corinne giggled. "So I ask him to tutor me on Monday nights. He's real hard up for money - got a scholarship to cover his credits, of course, but, hey, everyone has to eat, right?"  
  
"And?" Peter prodded, becoming tired of both the conversation and staring at the boy's bent head.  
  
"And I figured that rather than paying him money...."  
  
Peter grinned. "You little vamp," he murmured, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck. "Saved yourself a couple of bucks, eh?"  
  
Corinne submitted to the nuzzle for a moment then giggled again. "Come judge for yourself." She used one hand to adjust her shocking pink halter a little higher over her navel, then tugged at Peter's arm, dragging him closer. Stantz never looked up, his attention firmly riveted on the heavy tome he was perusing. From what little Peter could see as he got closer, it was in Latin. "Hi, Ray," Corinne purred, adopting a seductive pose.  
  
Stantz glanced up blankly, finding himself eye-to-eye, so to speak, with her bared stomach. He peeked up at her face then dropped his eyes, staring hard at the green lawn. "Hi, C-Corinne," he stuttered, scarlet flooding his cheeks. "I di-didn't see you."  
  
"Well, I saw you," Corinne said, kneeling in front of him in such a way as to make her blouse gape. "Just thought I'd say ... hello."  
  
Ray gulped. He glanced at Peter, immediately returning his gaze to the innocuous lawn. "H-hello."  
  
Corinne smirked and leaned back on her heels, glancing at Peter as though inviting him to share the joke. Peter returned her smile, though with less voltage than normal. There was something about the situation - and Corinne's deliberate cruelty - that didn't sit well with him. "I'm Peter Venkman," he blurted without thinking.  
  
"I know." Stantz timidly looked up again, huge gold-brown eyes full of humiliation. He knows what she's doing, Peter realized, regretting his part in the matter. "I m-met you before - a long time ago when I-I first got here. I asked you for directions to the registrar's office."  
  
A stray memory flooded back. Peter placed the boy suddenly. He had asked for directions; unfortunately, the directions Peter had given him - had the boy been foolish enough to follow them - would have landed him in the middle of Newark. "Uh ... sorry about that," he said awkwardly, wondering why he was bothering to apologize to this little nobody. He was Peter Venkman, and Peter Venkman never apologized to anyone. "What are you reading?" he asked, more to fill the awkward silence than out of any real interest.  
  
Ray's eyes dropped gratefully to the book still in his lap. "This? It's a Latin translation of Tobin's Spirit Guide! A single edition was published in the mid-eleventh century by the Vatican!" The words bubbled out in a stream of pure delight, the boy's face lighting from within as he forgot his self-consciousness in the honest pleasure of sharing his prize. "This is only a copy, of course, but it's one of the few Latin versions to be found in the entire world! And to think it was right here in the library the whole time! And I can really read it!"  
  
The enthusiasm was so contagious that Peter found himself returning the other's happy smile, only then catching Corinne's disapproving frown from the side. "Pretty good, kid. Spirit Guide. Right. What are you, anyway, Sophomore?"  
  
Corinne cleared her throat, drawing Stantz' attention for a single instant before he again looked away. Whatever it was that he'd seen in the woman drove the elation from his face at once. "J-Junior this year. N-nothing much."  
  
Taking the renewed stutter as a sign that the boy was fast reaching whatever conversational limits he possessed - thanks to Corinne - Peter again grasped Corinne's hand, hauling her to her feet. "Come on, honey, I'm late for class."  
  
"Sure, Petey. See you, Ray." She stretched seductively, baring her midriff by an additional six inches, then reclaimed Peter's arm. The two strolled off and Peter could feel those impossibly large eyes fixed on his back until they were out of sight.  
  
"So, Corinne," he began softly, clearing his throat. "How much money are you paying him?"  
  
She laughed out loud at that. "A whole lot more than I intended, believe me! He's never even looked me in the face much less tried anything. Kid'll never know what he's missing."  
  
"He's not missing that much," Peter muttered under his breath, wondering if Jill Wheeler would like to go with him to the Sigma Chi party next week.  
  
***  
  
The football game that afternoon had been a grand success from the viewpoint of Columbia students. A sweeping 26-14 victory over Notre Dame had touched off a wave of joyous victory celebrations, one spontaneous party after another springing into being and promising to last throughout the night.  
  
It was ten-thirty and Peter was making the rounds. He'd left Try Cuppa Brew's gala two hours earlier, starting at the nearest women's dorm and working his way in a rough circle around the campus. At this point he was on his way to the eighth gathering of the evening, comfortably stoned and in a mellow mood.  
  
"... to make sure I didn't tell Monica to meet me here, Chuck," he was telling the tall, powerfully muscled man who ambled at his side. "I can't remember whether I said the lab or my frat."  
  
The man adjusted his red varsity jacket then courteously allowed Peter to precede him through the doors into Weaver Hall. "Hope it was the frat. Can't imagine why you'd tell a swinging single like Monica to meet you at a dreary ..."  
  
"... deserted ..." Peter interjected.  
  
"... deserted.... Oh."  
  
"Yeah, 'oh.'" Peter threw a friendly arm around his best friend's shoulders, steering him up the stairs. "Deserted is sure nice when you're living in a frat."  
  
Chuck bobbed his head wisely, making his shoulder-length blond hair bounce. He took a puff of the crudely rolled cigarette he held between two fingers, his pleasant Texas twang thickening even as his eyes grew more unfocussed. "Y'all got 'ta get out'a that frat sooner or later, buddy boy. When you moving in with me? I've been inviting you for nigh on 'ta three months now and frankly, son, I can use your bread. You want another hit?"  
  
Peter threw up his hands, then grabbed again for Chuck's shoulder to prevent a spill - his own. "Not 'till January - won't have the green before then, man. The frat is cheap ... read 'free' since a I'm working grad class hero - and right now I'm barely above water here. Ph.D. programs ain't easy and I can't call on my family's bread like the jerk I work with." He waved the drug away, wrinkling his aquiline nose. "Naw, man, can't walk as it is. Save it for later."  
  
"Neither is Theater Arts cheap," the blond returned sourly, carefully pinching out his butt and stowing it in his breast pocket. "Without a higher degree than Bachelors, I ain't never gonna get a job in television like ahm aiming for. An' may I say to you, Mister BMOC, that you got your Masters in pretty jig time fer a boy who says he don't study none."  
  
Peter shrugged. "What does study have to do with being a genius?"  
  
Chuck was still pondering this remark when Peter tightened his hold on the bulky shoulder, bringing them both to a halt. "There's a light on in the lab," he whispered.  
  
"Monica?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "I remember locking the door last night." He frowned. "Actually, that's the only thing I do remember about last night. Anyway, that has ta' be my dork labmate, Spengler. Told you about him - dirty sneak swiped Marian Gainscott away from me when I wasn't looking. He never could'a done that if I hadn't been ... uh ... distracted, you know."  
  
"Yeah, distracted," Chuck sniggered, clapping a hand to his mouth. "Sure, Pete."  
  
The two froze, listening to the low murmur of voices emanating from the closed room. Peter cocked his head, a wicked grin lifting his lips. "Well, I'll be.... I think old Geek-O has a chick in there! Hey, Chucky- baby, how about running a little team play for your former quarterback? Remember the old 18-24 crossover?"  
  
"Interference play." The blond nodded. "You got it, Pete. Paybacks are always fun."  
  
"Yeah." Venkman drew his friend closer until he could just murmur in his ear, "Now here's what you're gonna have to do...."  
  
Minutes later the two young men continued their stroll down the hall, boldly entering the lab and stopping to look around. "Well, well," Peter said, sneering as the startled duo within broke a close embrace. "Didn't know anyone was going to be here at this time of night."  
  
Egon hurriedly straightened his dress shirt, a slow flush working its way up his neck. "You are the last person I'd expect to see in a working lab this late," he snapped, rapidly recovering his aplomb. "Don't tell me you actually have work to do?"  
  
"Yeah, nice work you're doing," Peter retorted, brazenly examining the embarrassed woman from head to foot. She was tall - nearly Peter's own six feet - and slim to the point of being bony. No make-up adorned the plain face, but her features were saved from outright homeliness by a pair of large gray eyes, now wide with surprise, and bobbed black hair, gleaming almost blue in the artificial light. Peter winked. "How do you do. I'm Peter Venkman."  
  
"Bernadette Greenberg," she returned, flustered.  
  
"And this," Peter went on, ignoring Egon altogether, "is my buddy Chuck Weaver. Chuck, say hi to the pretty lady."  
  
"Hi," Weaver obeyed at once. "You a student?"  
  
The woman glanced from the two newcomers to her date, who was beginning to glower. "No. I mean ... I'm a student but not at Columbia. I study at the Art Institute at night. I ... have a job during the day ... with a bank."  
  
"A career woman!" Peter exclaimed with every evidence of delight. "I knew it when I looked at you. Independence. I love a woman with independence." He smiled engagingly and the woman smiled back. "Independence day is even my favorite holiday."  
  
That won a laugh from Bernadette and an annoyed snort from Egon. "We were just leaving," the blond physicist began.  
  
"Wow!" Chuck Weaver had spent the last few exchanges idly wandering the room. But now he was stopped in front of Egon's desk, his eyes riveted to the sheaf of computer paper stacked neatly in its center. "Hey, Pete, I don't believe it! You never said you were studying parapsychology here! I thought you were only doing that boring profile work."  
  
"He is only doing boring profile work," Spengler spoke up, turning a puzzled look in the big man's direction. "I'm the one investigating the paranormal. You have an interest in extra-dimensional theory?"  
  
Chuck nodded eagerly, riffling through the papers while pausing occasionally to peruse any equation that caught his eye. "I've studied everything that's ever come out on the subject. Houdini's research was especially interesting, even if all he did was debunk the hokesters."  
  
"We've progressed beyond Houdini by the order of a magnitude," Egon sniffed, approaching the desk. "Once Seldon postulated the existence of energized psi effected by dimensional nexus, true mathematical exploration began."  
  
Chuck nodded again, then froze, a frown etching his blond brows. "Wait a minute, isn't this one of Einstein's later equations?"  
  
Egon lifted the paper, scanning it quickly then looking up. "Actually," he admitted, looking pleased, "those are my equations. I've been studying the possible matrix effects of overlapped dimensional structure." He pressed a button and the computer monitor glowed to life. "Allow me to explain Dirac's contribution to Kraczykov's fourth theorem...."  
  
Precisely twenty-one minutes later, Egon drew a deep breath and shut off the screen. "... which is why I am convinced that many of the old legends were generated by structural overlap."  
  
"Very interesting," Weaver returned automatically, his eyes having glazed over during the first five minutes of Spengler's lecture. "I see."  
  
Egon nodded and looked up. "Good. Now Bernadette...." He stopped, puzzled by the realization that he and Weaver were alone. "That's odd. What happened to Bernadette and P-- Uh-oh."  
  
"Lose something, Egon?" Chuck inquired sweetly, getting to his feet. "And was she wearing a skirt?"  
  
"Your interest was a deliberate delaying tactic," Egon snarled, spinning on the bigger man furiously. "While Venkman stalked off with my date!"  
  
Weaver shrugged. "Y'all'd know more about that than ah would. Besides, you got Marian, he got what's-her-name. I figger y'all're just 'bout even now." He dug into his pocket, again extracting the battered joint and placing it between his lips. "Want a hit? Make ya feel better."  
  
"The only thing that would make me feel better," Egon muttered, placing his fists on his hips, "is Venkman's head on a platter, that sneaky son-of- a...." He trailed off, reluctant admiration softening by a fraction the truculent lines of his jaw. "Although I will admit that was rather neatly arranged. I shall have to be on my guard next time against ... interference."  
  
"Sounds just fine ta me," Weaver drawled, tapping Egon on the arm. "In the meantime ... got a match?"  
  
***  
  
"... but the giant chicken wasn't actually chasing you, was he, Zeke?"  
  
Egon looked up at that, startled out of his concentration by the sheer absurdity of the question. He glanced over his shoulder to where Peter was engaged in yet one more of the innumerable interviews of which his job consisted. At this moment Peter questioned a squat, dark-haired youth with bad acne and a tendency to pick at his ear, about the previous night's dreams. Obviously, the man had interesting dreams.  
  
"No, Professor Venkman." The youth shook his head vigorously at the suggestion. "He was, like, just standing there, like, looking at me! And he had this, like, real weird look on his face, like he was laughing at me! Next thing I know he's climbing the freaking Empire State Building!" Zeke scratched his nubbin head, making his greasy black hair stand on end. "Biggest dang chicken I ever saw, too. What d'ya, like, suppose it means?"  
  
Egon clamped his teeth together to prevent a laugh from escaping at the ludicrous image of a giant chicken attacking New York. He shifted his gaze to Peter, privately giving the man credit for the expression of polite interest that was all the psychologist ever permitted to show. Right now Peter was regarding his subject with an encouraging smile, no trace of humor on his lips.  
  
"Let me ask you, Zeke," Peter said, "what do you think it means?" He paused, pencil poised over his notebook, forefinger of his right hand casually tapping his knee. "Any idea at all?"  
  
Zeke considered, his pudgy face screwed up in the effort of concentration. "I think," he began slowly, "that maybe ..."  
  
"Yes?" Peter encouraged, leaning closer.  
  
"... that maybe I, like, better lay off the chili before bedtime!" Zeke finished with such a flourish that both Peter and Egon burst into laughter. Zeke grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I, like, don't have any idea why I'd turn my pop into a giant chicken. I mean, he lives on a farm and all but...."  
  
Peter left off tapping his knee, spreading both hands wide. "No problem on it, man. We all dream weird stuff sometimes. Why, just last night I dreamed about Bambi Martin. Want to know the weird things I had her doing?"  
  
The younger man laughed. "Like I couldn't guess?"  
  
"I'm sure you could." Peter nodded amiably and rose. "That's all for today, Zeke. You did fine." He waited until Zeke had departed before returning to his desk and sinking wearily into his old swivel chair. "Where do these people come from? I mean, a man turning into a giant chicken, for crying out loud?!"  
  
He looked so woebegone that Spengler felt moved to offer at least some moral support. "You never know, Peter," he began helpfully. "Some of these dreams may hold hidden significance."  
  
"If you're talking psychosis," Peter interrupted with a weary wave of the hand, "forget it. Zeke's as normal as you are ... well, as normal as I am, anyway."  
  
Feeling magnanimous, Egon chose to ignore the punt. "Actually, I was thinking more in line with manifestations of latent psi. It's been theorized that many humans possess unsuspected esper abilities - abilities that are untapped if not untappable." He stopped and dug into one cluttered drawer, pulling out a dog-eared publication and brandishing it in the air. "Ah, here we are. According to Berkowski's newest article in Paranormal Explorations Journal, during sleep when the human unconscious is given freer rein, certain psi abilities tend to manifest. He makes several valid points though I must say that I tend to disagree with some of his conclusions."  
  
Peter regarded the innocuous looking magazine with suspicion, though Egon could see the intrigue in the back of his green eyes. "You don't really believe that stuff, do you? Telepathy? Telling the future?"  
  
"Precognition," Egon put in.  
  
"Whatever." Peter waved a languid hand dismissively, though Egon could still see a touch of curiosity in his expression. "That kind of stuff has been debunked for years. And somehow I doubt Zeke actually sees a giant chicken in New York's future, do you?"  
  
Egon chuckled. "Extremely doubtful. I was only offering it as an alternate line of thought."  
  
Peter shrugged. "For what it was worth."  
  
There was a low tap on the door; a young woman entered at Peter's summons. The woman was of medium height and attractive - but then, most of Venkman's female subjects were, Egon reflected with some amusement. Curly dark hair bobbed fetchingly in the slight breeze generated by the open door, and her smile, though strained, was warm. "Professor Venkman?"  
  
"Hello, Betty." Peter rose and advanced to meet her, hands outstretched. "I was so sorry to hear about your loss. Last Wednesday, wasn't it?"  
  
She nodded, clamping her lip between her teeth. "Yes, Father died Wednesday morning. I ... really wanted to talk to you about that, too?"  
  
"Of course." Peter led the way to the open cubical in the corner, seating the woman in the near chair. "How can I help you,?"  
  
Betty dug into her shoulder bag for a handkerchief, which she applied to her eyes. She sniffed loudly then composed herself with a visible effort. "I.... This is really hard for me to say, Professor Venkman...."  
  
"Peter."  
  
"Peter." She nodded, meeting his eyes briefly. From where he sat, Egon could see fresh tears on her long lashes. She took a deep breath. "I-I want to know if somehow I could be responsible for my father's death?"  
  
Peter blinked. "Your family lives in Maine. How could you possibly be responsible?"  
  
Betty glanced at Egon then stared hard at the far wall. "I-I dreamed about my father on Tuesday ... about his death! And-and on Wednesday...." Her voice caught in her throat, choking her. "You've studied dreams before and.... Oh, Peter, could I somehow be responsible for him dying? Did I dream him dead?!"  
  
She shifted her gaze, and Egon's heart tightened in his chest at the appealing look in her eyes. Peter was likewise affected. He scooted his chair closer until he could put an arm around her shoulders. "If that's what you're thinking," he began in a soothing voice, "you can put it right out of your mind right now. A dream is just that - a dream. And there's no way that a simple little dream is going to hurt a man living all the way in Maine!"  
  
Betty sniffed again, and there was real relief in her face, the readiness to accept any immunity from grief-generated guilt plain. "You really think so?" she asked doubtfully. "I mean, you really don't think I was responsible?"  
  
Peter smiled. "Of course not. Now why don't you tell me about any dreams you had last night and we'll work our way back to last week...."  
  
Egon listened with only half an ear to the ensuing conversation, his own calculations forgotten. Psionics had never been one of his fields of study, having preferred the more unearthly directions his physics demanded. But though idly offered, the previous conversation with Venkman had awakened new questions in Egon's fertile brain: Did humans possess the latent psi abilities Berkowski wrote about? Could Betty have actually influenced her father's death from hundreds of miles away? Was there a giant chicken in New York's future?  
  
The humor of that latter inquiry brought him back to cognizance of his surroundings. Of course he would never see a giant chicken, but what about Betty? Were there other espers in the world?  
  
He sighed and shook his head. Interesting questions that would have to wait. His multi-dimensional research was coming along well since Vodrovski's hint, and must be given priority at present. Perhaps in the future...?  
  
He looked up again when Betty emitted a sharp yell and threw herself towards the door. "Mouse!" she yelped, flattening herself against the wall.  
  
"Mouse?" Peter and Egon exchanged a look then followed Betty's trembling finger to where a tiny gray body was just disappearing behind the file cabinet. Peter chuckled; Egon did not.  
  
"Mice belong in cages," the physicist remarked, rolling his eyes. "I never did enjoy having them run loose."  
  
Peter shrugged and crossed to help Betty with the door. "No big deal. He's not big enough to do any real damage. Betty, we'll continue this at another time?"  
  
"And another place," Betty breathed, making her escape.  
  
Egon stared absently at the now-closed door then turned, again giving his attention to a wrung-out looking Peter. "Well?" Egon prodded easily. "What do you think now?"  
  
Peter stared back blankly for a long moment. "I think the mouse will leave when he doesn't find anything to eat."  
  
"I mean about what we were talking about earlier."  
  
Peter scowled. "You mean, did Betty actually dream her dad to death long- distance?"  
  
Egon picked up a pen, tapping it thoughtfully on his desk blotter. "Not necessarily that, but is it possible that she had a precognitive experience? Perhaps she had advanced warning that her father was going to die?"  
  
Peter shook his head firmly. "Not a chance, pal. Betty's father had been suffering from colon cancer; he'd spent the last six months dying by degrees - and in a great deal of pain. I'd have been surprised if Betty hadn't dreamed about his death. She must have known it was close."  
  
Egon pursed his lips, not missing the flicker of open speculation in the other man's sharp eyes. "I do see your point," he conceded, crossing his legs at the knee. "But you dismiss the subject too readily. The probability is as you say, but the possibility has not been disproven simply because you don't want it to be true. And what about such phenomena as deja vu or even the more common abilities such as hunches or intuition? We've never been able to adequately explain them, either."  
  
Speculation gave birth to contemplation. "My Dad is a gambler; I grew up around casinos and poker games. Knew more than one card player who'll calmly draw to an inside straight - and win. More - will know they're going to win. Those guys generally end up knocking themselves off before they can retire."  
  
Egon nodded slowly. "An active esper is going to have trouble adjusting to a psi-null world, according to Berkowski's article. If you'd care to read it...?"  
  
Peter snorted, pulling a disdainful mask over the interest Egon had surprised. "Not a chance. I've got too much real research to do."  
  
Since the hour was late Egon allowed the subject to drop, but when he returned to the lab the next morning Paranormal Explorations was most decidedly not in the same position as where he'd left it. Got you, Egon thought with satisfaction, returning to his own task and determining to leave other publications around where Venkman could find them.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks ambled by slowly as the semester progressed. Both Egon and Peter found themselves falling into the regular patterns of classes, teaching and research that marked all grad students of their calibre. Venkman reached his stride and stayed there, balancing his time evenly between working hard and playing harder. Now that the holiday seasons were beginning, the quantity and quality of campus and off-campus parties increased exponentially, and Peter, it seemed, was determined to attend them all. A life-long resident of New York, he was acquainted with literally hundreds of people, all of whom seemed determined to court his favor in some way or another. Peter accepted the attention as his due and made his rounds through Halloween and on into the Thanksgiving and early Christmas season.  
  
This did not mean that Peter allowed his work to slack. Always fascinated by the workings of the human mind, he'd finally found a channel for his interest. That it coordinated so perfectly with McKenna's overall theme of sleep research was providential, and for the first time in his youthful existence Peter found himself a member of a working team, personalities aside, that contributed regularly in the scientific field.  
  
As the days shortened, Egon began spending ever more time in the lab. He worked long, frustrating hours in failed strategies to discover some method for detecting paranatural energy flows, restricted as he was by using only terran materials. This research grew staggering combined as it was with the requirements for receiving his Ph.D. in Ancient Languages, his Bachelors in Parapsychology, and his newest interest in spores, molds and fungi. Add to this the second level physics and advanced mathematics courses he taught weekly and the burden grew exhausting indeed. It would have been easier, he remarked often, had he someone to assist in the routine tasks to be performed, writing his reports, assembling and de- assembling equipment to specification, doing some of the investigative footwork in tracking down unexplained occurrences, etc. Soon, out of sheer desperation, with McKenna's reluctant approval - and over Peter's loud protest - he began casting about for a part-time lab assistant.  
  
"There isn't enough room in here for us," the psychologist objected when the plan was proposed to him. "What are we gonna do? Velcro him to the wall?"  
  
"We'll set him up a little space in that corner," Egon had replied with some asperity, pointing to an area just behind his own desk. "I doubt you'll be bothered by the extra body at all," such answer garnering nothing but grumbles and acidic comments for several days thereafter.  
  
Having located no one meeting his approval by the time November fifteenth arrived, he'd begun to resign himself to having no personal life at all for the next four years - possibly longer if he decided to go for that third Ph.D. in Parapsychology, as he was seriously considering.  
  
Thursday afternoon found both men present in the lab, a not-uncommon occurrence of late. Egon, as usual, was hunched over his keyboard, the glow of the computer monitor reflecting softly off of his thick lenses. He was on the trail of what he hoped would be a breakthrough in his long- running quest to detect the unearthly. Nearly ready to begin construction on a prototype detector, the screen was full of rough schematics and equations, while his fingers flew over the keyboard, running simulations on one system after another.  
  
Peter was cornered in his cubical with yet another of his test subjects. Interviewing, then repeated analysis of each subject was time consuming, yet not a flicker of tedium ever showed on the man's expressive features - at least, not in front of the students. His questions were invariably patient and encouraging, eliciting full cooperation from everyone involved. Today, it was a new volunteer that he interviewed, a petite blonde psychology student named Sandy, who attended the Psych I class he taught on Wednesdays. Peter had had his eye on the girl since September, restraining himself from making his move only because she was in his class.  
  
This moral state of affairs would not last forever, he told himself, studying her from a distance of a single yard. Come June, she'd have moved on to Bookbinder's Psych II, and Peter would be free to ask her out. That didn't mean he couldn't do a little foundation work in the meantime!  
  
"So are all your dreams this particularly erotic?" he said, making dutiful notes in his book. "Do they ... uh ... parallel your waking fantasies at all?" I hope! he added privately. If the girl's tastes ran anything like her dreams, they were going to have a very interesting time of it indeed once she graduated!  
  
Sandy crossed slim legs, her little smile showing that she was not unaware of the effect that action had on Peter's blood pressure. "All of them," she purred, making a vain effort at tugging her black skirt over her knees. "As for my fantasies...." She dimpled at him, an unself-conscious chuckle escaping her pink lips. "I'll tell you the truth, Peter, I have fantasies that would curl that great hair of yours. I'll be glad to tell you all about them if I'm selected for this project."  
  
Peter sighed then caught himself, telling himself sternly that this was a professional interview. The fun would come later. "I'll look forward to that," he returned, smiling in return. He skipped to the bottom of his list of questions - the ones he'd included only recently. "Next question: Have you ever had one of your dreams actually come true?"  
  
Sandy's dimples vanished. Her brow puckered in a thoughtful frown. "Well ... not exactly that."  
  
Hormone levels restored themselves to some semblance of balance as Peter's ears pricked up. "Have you experienced any form of extra-sensory perceptions? Clairvoyance? Precognition?"  
  
Sandy shifted uncomfortably, shooting a glance to the glass partition through which Egon's hunched form could barely be seen. "I don't usually mention ... things like that," she began, running the tip of her tongue over her lips. "But...."  
  
"Come on, Sandy," Peter prodded, turning his supportive smile up another notch. "You know you can tell me anything no matter how awkward or embarrassing."  
  
The girl sighed. "You're not going to believe me," she stated candidly, "but there have been a few times when I could ... tell what people near me were thinking - or sometimes even pick up the thoughts of people related to them. Long-distance like."  
  
Peter stared, meeting her frank expression with inconcealable surprise. The questions on esper abilities were more throwaways than anything. He'd added them to his interview sheet on a whim and had been astonished at the number of positive responses he'd received. Ninety-nine percent of them he'd been able to explain away without effort - a submerged memory, heightened sensitivity from a long-term relationship, mass 'trendiness.' He did have to admit to being baffled by the one percent he could not explain - not enough to make him a believer or anything, but enough to keep him asking the questions.  
  
Now he stared long and hard at the young woman before him, wondering into which category she fell into. Despite her declaration, Sandy had not struck him as being neurotic or trendy; rather, she'd so far displayed high intelligence in his class and a level-headed forthrightness that compelled belief. Or at least, further inquiry.  
  
"Sandy," he began gently, pulling his smile back into place to rob his question of offense. "You're not pulling higher than a B-minus average in my class. If you were telepathic you could just read the answers out of my head."  
  
The girl shook back a strand of long hair, china blue eyes crinkling at the edges. "Knew you wouldn't believe me," she remarked off-handedly. "But I'll tell you anyway. I can't control when I'm going to be connected to someone else. It just ... well, it just happens all by itself."  
  
She gestured expansively, her long fingers just brushing Peter's. "Like once I was in a room full of people and Poof! - I'm getting images from three of 'em at once. Then there was the time I was at this party and was able to pick out an undercover narc when no one else could." She rubbed her temples. "Doesn't happen often. Good thing because it gives me a nasty headache." Her elfin face twisted in disgust. "You'd be surprised at what some of those so-called upright citizens were thinking."  
  
"I wouldn't be," Peter muttered under his breath. Louder, "Is there any set pattern to it that you've noticed? Any particular time period between ... contacts?"  
  
"Nope. And it's even more fun when I start reading minds that aren't even in the room! That's happened once when I was twelve."  
  
"Does any type of contact happen often?" Peter asked, cocking his head.  
  
She shrugged. "Maybe a couple times ever. No one ever believes me though, so I usually don't bring it up."  
  
"Hmmm." Peter frowned, scratching absently at his chin. A raspy noise told him that he needed a shave before his date tonight. Jill hated whiskers. He shrugged, refocussing on Sandy's alert face. "It's not that I disbelieve you," he said slowly. "It's just that I've never seen any proof of the type of ability you're describing."  
  
"No kidding," the girl retorted.  
  
"But I'd like to talk to you about it in more detail later."  
  
Sandy thought it over, then nodded. "You're the first normal person who hasn't laughed at me, so okay. And my fantasies."  
  
"Especially your fantasies," Peter acknowledged, hormones kicking back into gear. "See me after class for an appointment." He walked her to the door then turned to find himself the recipient of a quizzical blue stare from the opposing desk. "You want something?" Peter asked, staring back.  
  
Spengler pushed away the stack of tests he'd been grading, patting them into a neat pile precisely in the center of his desk. He pulled off his spectacles and began to wipe them absently on his shirt cuff. "I didn't know you'd added inquiries about possible paranormal experiences to your checklist. Have you come across any other positive results?"  
  
"I've come across no positive results," Peter returned firmly. "Nothing but a bunch'a neurotics and/or the misinformed. I've been able to explain away nearly every so-called 'experience' with a little reality-based logic."  
  
"Nearly?" Egon echoed, one blond brow climbing into the mass of blond hair that curled over his forehead. "You mean you've come across some occurrences you couldn't explain?"  
  
Stubbornness firmed Peter's jaw. "Lack of information."  
  
"And what about this girl Sandy?" Egon went on, replacing his glasses higher on his hooked nose. "I didn't get the impression that she was either neurotic or misinformed."  
  
"Sandy," Peter retorted, feeling his back go up, "is privileged information, and I'd be grateful if you didn't spread around everything you hear."  
  
Egon's eyes flashed at that. He made no immediate reply but retrieved his stack of tests and applied his red marker with a vengeance. It was some minutes later that he again spoke. "Hmmmm. At least someone on this campus shows a modicum of the intelligence he was born with." At Peter's inquiring noise, he passed the test paper across, marking an obscure looking mass of figures at the bottom with a pencil. "Look how this student handled Teitleberg's thermodynamics equations. Very creative."  
  
Peter glanced at the name, then gave it a second look. "Raymond Stantz. Ray Stantz? Young kid with reddish hair?"  
  
Egon cocked a brow. "Yes. Do you know him?"  
  
The other shrugged, the paper rustling with the movement. "Just in passing. He tutors an ex-friend of mine." At Spengler's impatient gesture he obediently studied the highlighted text, turning the paper this way and that before handing it back. "Very interesting. ... Whatever it is."  
  
Egon snatched the paper away and restored it to the pile on the desk. "What he did," the blond explained tartly, "was to answer my query on Teitleberg's Third Energy Law by designing an entirely original heat- exchange system to handle the excess thermals."  
  
"You mean he got the question right?" Peter translated, pulling across a stack of his own and scowling at it prodigiously.  
  
Spengler hesitated. "Not precisely. The boy didn't actually explain the ramifications of Teitleberg's laws as I requested, he designed a mechanism to eliminated the problem altogether. I simply cannot give him credit for the question, clever though the solution might be." He paused, loosening his navy tie and allowing the ends to droop on either side of his neck. "If he's planning on pursuing his Masters degree, I might suggest he continue working on this concept for his thesis. It holds great possibilities in his own engineering field, though I fear he'll never make it as a physicist."  
  
"And despite the fact that he's flunking your class," Venkman jeered out of habit, reaching for a marking pen.  
  
The blond head shook definitely. "He's not flunking by any means. The boy is actually quite bright and works harder than any two students ... unlike the majority of his peers. I'm simply hesitant about approving his application to join my advanced maths class next year."  
  
"I thought you said he was bright?" Peter prompted, in a contrary mood. Spengler rose and stretched, the vertebrae in his back crackling one by one. He ignored Peter's wince to crack his neck as well. "There are various directions intelligence can take, Peter. Young Raymond exhibits a positive aptitude in his chosen field of engineering. You can see that much in the creativity of even this single test answer. Unfortunately, I feel that he's fast reaching his limits in this particular realm. A theoretical mathematician must possess the ability to conceptualize in the abstract - pure numbers and formulae. Raymond must visualize far too much of a problem to solve it, always seeking a practical resolution."  
  
Venkman continued reading the first paper of his stack, then made a sound of disgust deep in his throat and crumpled it into a ball. "If Harvey can't do better than this, he can just repeat the class next semester," he growled, tossing the wad carelessly to the floor. "So, hey, Casper," he began, grinning at the glowering physicist impishly. "If this kid is so practical and hard-working and brilliant, why don't you hire him as our new lab assistant? From what I hear, he can use the money. That is, if you think you can find space for him in this breadbox."  
  
The glower muted fractionally into a thoughtful frown. "That is a possibility," he admitted, dropping back into his seat. "Even though he doesn't have a degree yet, he's more than competent." He broke off to stare at his companion, blue eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, our lab assistant? McKenna authorized one for me."  
  
Peter leaned his chair back, balancing it precariously on two legs. "I'm sure he'll be able to make himself useful in more than one way, Doctor Spengler," he replied piously. "Besides taking up space we don't have, that is."  
  
Egon's glower returned full force. "I'm not hiring you a personal slave, Mister Venkman. It the boy gets the job, he'll have his hands full enough with the prototype detection device I'm designing. He won't have time to do your drudge work as well."  
  
Peter shrugged. "Of course not, Dr. Spengler," he caroled with patently false accord.  
  
The other shook his head but said no more on the subject save, "I'll ask him in to interview on Monday morning."  
  
***  
  
For Ray Stantz the weekend passed with agonizing slowness until finally Monday dawned and the moment of his interview approached. The morning hours consisted of excruciating torture, expectation raking like a live wire across Ray's sensitized nerves. To be accepted into any of Dr. Spengler's classes at all was considered an honor on campus and was certainly more than Stantz had never expected. Day by day he would watch the tall blond during class, handsome, assured and competent, dreaming of the day when he too would carry that air of cool self-confidence that marked the scientist.  
  
The summons Thursday night had been unexpected, even the bare possibility of actually working with the great Egon Spengler thrilling beyond all comprehension. To Ray, the potential for accomplishing all he had ever dreamed in either of his chosen fields now hinged on the outcome of the next few hours; in his own perception, his entire future life hung in the balance and he was, frankly, afraid.  
  
Ray had risen early, carefully selecting his favorite brown slacks and a white shirt, even taking the time to wipe his loafers until the leather near glowed. He paused in front of the mirror, comb in hand, and examined his appearance critically, alert for the smallest spot or tear in his clothes. Clean and pressed, they nevertheless showed signs of wear in several places, not even counting the neat stitches that reinforced the cuff. Whether he got this job or not, he was going to have to find another source of income soon; Corinne had dropped out of school and the two other students he tutored regularly would be going away for the holidays starting next week. And since he'd moved out of his aunt's house into the dorm, he was barely making enough to keep himself in food much less clothing.  
  
His gaze trailed from his white shirt to his midriff, and he patted it disgustedly. He was definitely putting on weight, he decided, wrinkling his snub nose with dismay. The two years he'd spent away from heavy farm work had slowly sapped his muscles of their tone, leaving him softer than he'd ever been. Maybe he should start watching his diet anyway; if nothing else, that would leave him some clothing money at the end of the month. Maybe.  
  
Dismissing this unproductive train of thought for the moment, he applied the comb, running it through the soft auburn strands that trailed down just over his ears in what passed for an approximation of the acceptable style that year. He brushed slowly and shifted his view; large eyes stared back at him from the mirror, a clear brown color with gold tones that only served to enhance the sparkle that lived perpetually in their depths. To an unbiased observer the image presented was that of a wholesome, open- faced youth of eighteen years, with intelligent eyes and a generous mouth; to Stantz the not-unpleasant effect of his reflection provoked nothing but gloom.  
  
"Nothing's going to help," he told himself disparagingly, "You look like what you are - one more loser right off the farm." This negative judgment took root instantly, causing Ray's broad shoulders to slump. "I might as well just face it, there's no way in the world that Dr. Spengler is going to really want me working for him on anything. I'm not near smart enough and I'd just mess things up, anyway. Like usual." His eager expression fading into resignation, he quietly donned the calf-length trenchcoat that had been an early Christmas present from his aunt, then left the dorm. "Guess I'd better show up for the interview; it was nice of him to at least give me the chance. I hope I don't waste much of his time."  
  
Steps dragging, he made his way across the campus to Weaver Hall, then climbed the stairs to Lab 14. He found it easily and knocked, opening the door after a hearty summons from within. "Dr. Spengler?" he asked, peeking around the corner.  
  
"Don't even say that in jest," came the simulated reproof from a familiar jeans-clad figure lounging at the first of two desks. His handsome face breaking into a sardonic smile, Peter Venkman waved Ray into the room, looking him up and down with open curiosity. "C'mon in and sit down; Egon is ... uh ... powdering his nose. He'll be right back. You can put your coat over there. Nice coat, by the way - great length."  
  
Ray nodded his thanks and quietly shut the door, slipping out of his long coat and hanging it on the bare nail that jutted out of the white wall. He then took the indicated seat by the second desk, using the opportunity to examine the lab surreptitiously through his lashes. It was smaller than he'd expected it to be, chock full of books and papers, unrecognized components and paraphernalia scattered haphazardly across desks and floor. The only relatively uncluttered area was a small cubicle in the corner, which held two chairs and a card table.  
  
"Not much to look at, is it?" Venkman asked, following his line of sight. "That's because old man McKenna decided that spook chasers and newbees don't rate as high as the more mundane researchers in this funny farm."  
  
Ray risked a glance at Venkman, but there was no real animosity in the man's features despite the cynical tone; rather, there was a careless make- due look somewhat at odds with his hellraiser reputation. "You-you don't mind sharing a-a lab?" he ventured, hating the nervous stutter that emerged in times of stress.  
  
Venkman's lips twitched in a tiny smile. "Sharing a lab sucks big time, booby, and I'd dump the geek in a minute if I could figure out how." At Ray's shocked expression, he made a throwaway gesture with one hand. "Hey, nobody ever said science was pretty, kid."  
  
At a loss as to how to respond to this piece of unconventionality, Ray licked his lips and tried again. "Are ... you a physicist, too?"  
  
That won him a frown. "I," Venkman replied with great dignity, "am a psychologist. Do I look like a physicist to you?"  
  
As the implication in the tone equated 'physicist' to 'low-life pond scum,' Ray bit his lip and said nothing, preferring to stare at the neat crease in his slacks to those mocking green eyes. Peter Venkman! Ray thought with more than a touch of awe. Ray was sitting here talking with Peter Venkman, probably the most popular guy in the entire college! Or rather, not talking with him, he added with innate, if unflattering, honesty, for try as he might Ray could think of nothing to say. Silence stretched uncomfortably and Ray began to squirm, sensing the other watching him closely. He again chanced a peek, surprised when he found benevolence in the other's expression where he'd expected only contempt.  
  
"Don't be nervous around here, kid," Peter told him after another moment had passed. "I'm a smartmouth but I'm harmless as blazes, and Egon's a big, pompous ass that I generally ignore. I advise you to do the same."  
  
"I-I'm here about ... about the job," Ray managed, cursing himself as three ways of a fool. If he couldn't even hold a conversation around this man, how was he going to manage in an interview with Spengler? "I mean...."  
  
Venkman held up a hand. "I know all about it. Right now you're the only one Spengs is interviewing, so try to relax." Taking his own advice, Peter propped his sneakers up on the desk, lacing his fingers behind his head. "So, where you staying? Frat or dorm?"  
  
A manila folder lay on the edge of Spengler's desk. From where Ray sat he could see his own name neatly emblazoned in black marker on its leading edge. He gulped. "Uh ... it's ... the dorm," he managed, mind shifting into reverse. "I-I was using my Aunt Lois' house, but-but she and my cousin moved back in from Paris, and...." He shrugged. The dorm wasn't too bad, especially since a bookkeeping fluke had graced him with a room of his own - an unexpected sanctuary. And he certainly didn't miss the commute back to the Bronx every day! It took him a moment to realize that Peter was speaking again.  
  
"Moving is a bitch," the young researcher commiserated. "I'll be leaving the frat in January myself. Gonna bunk with a buddy off-campus. Means moving a ton of junk though." He picked up a pencil, waving it in Ray's at tentative face. "So, what about originally? You from New York, too?"  
  
Ray dipped his head, watching with fascination as his knuckles grew white from the strain of keeping the slight quiver out of his hands. "From ... uh ... Morrisville. It's a-a farm community in New York State."  
  
"A farm?!" the other exclaimed, apparently horror-stricken by the concept. "With, like, animals and things? What, your parents' owned it or something? I mean, like, voluntarily?"  
  
Again at a loss, Ray could only shake his head, casting about in his blank mind for something - anything - intelligent to say that would not involve his less-than-prestigious background ... or his parents. It was Peter who again broke the silence after clearing his throat noisily. "Did you ever finish reading that Latin book thing you'd found? It looked pretty heavy- duty from where I was standing."  
  
Ray seized on the question, the mention of his prize a welcome distraction. "I only gave it a quick read-through," he admitted, "but Columbia has a whole section on the super- and paranatural. I'm minoring in the subject, you know. After Engineering, I mean."  
  
His pleasure in the thought must have seeped through, for another smile lifted Peter's lips. "No, I didn't know, but I can see why Egon wanted to talk to you first." Ray didn't understand that part, but had no time to ponder as Peter went on, "I've just picked up a new curiosity in my own field. What do you know of telepathy?"  
  
A considerable amount, as they both found out. Enthusiasm began to bubble up, banishing Ray's anxiety as he lost himself in the pleasure of sharing his knowledge with another. The ice broken, the two chatted freely for some minutes until the door reopened and Spengler strode into the room. Ray broke off mid-sentence as the man appeared, leaping to his feet and nearly knocking the chair over in the process. "G-good morning, Dr. Spengler."  
  
"Good morning, Ray," Spengler replied calmly, studiously ignoring Peter's guffaw. "Thank you for coming."  
  
Ray gulped, digging his nails into his palms and forcing a smile. Egon Spengler! M.I.T. whiz-kid and acknowledged genius. Ray tilted his head, forced to look up to meet the sky blue eyes regarding him with polite interest. Spengler was even taller than he appeared in the lecture hall, towering over Ray by a good five or six inches, big boned yet lean - an effect that should have made him gangly yet strangely did not. The blond wave the man wore curled softly over his forehead, and Ray doubted that even plastic surgery could ever transform his own gently-rounded jaw into the square-chiseled perfection the other wore with such regal assurance.  
  
Ray reseated himself at Spengler's command and clasped his hands tightly in his lap. This was it. The results of this interview could conceivably change the entire course of his life. Ray took a deep breath and waited for Dr. Egon Spengler to speak.  
  
From his vantage at the desk, Peter watched the interchange with great interest, his psychologist's eye summing up both men in the time it took for Spengler to close the door. Egon stood straight and tall - taller than usual, Peter thought nastily, like he had a poker up his anatomy. He was obviously in one of his pompous moods. Stantz, on the other hand, could have been interviewing with God for all the deference he was showing. He acted as though his entire life depended on getting this measly lab-assit job! - and was clearly overwhelmed by the stuffed shirt. That, Peter found irritating though he'd had no trouble accepting Stantz' awe of himself a few moments before. Rather than commenting, he held his peace for the moment and listened as Egon began his interview.  
  
"As you know," Egon began, pulling out his chair and dropping into it, "the job I'm looking to fill is that of a lab assistant. If selected you'll be required to handle any routine reports and requisitions, keep the room in some kind of order and maintain supply quotients as directed."  
  
"He means you'll be doing all the stuff he don't wanna," Peter translated sardonically.  
  
"In addition," Spengler went on, ignoring Peter with a vengeance, "I'm going to need someone with at least elementary technical skills, who will assist in the assembling of project materials and/or components as directed."  
  
"I-I'm an Engineering major," Ray returned meekly when the physicist had paused for breath. "I can follow a diagram."  
  
The blond head nodded. "I know you can. I questioned Professor Carteris rather extensively about you before inviting you to interview. He was quite lavish in his praise of your achievements."  
  
Peter recognized the name of the man who headed the electrical engineering section, only then realizing that he'd never asked what specialty Stantz was studying. Ray's face flushed pink at Egon's approval but all he said was, "It's easy if you have a good teacher, and Professor Carteris is the best there is." He caught himself, obviously remembering it was two teachers he was addressing. "Um, in the Engineering Department, that is."  
  
"And you're also doing quite well in your other classes," Egon went on, opening the folder and giving it a quick scan. "You've maintained an 'A' average in nearly every class you've ever taken."  
  
Stantz smiled shyly. "I'm doing okay in most of them," he corrected, nervously brushing back a strand of fine hair. "But not so well in-in Economics."  
  
"Understandable," Peter muttered, having had a tough time with Economics himself.  
  
Spengler cocked his head, his gaze piercing Ray's like a rapier. "Your interest in the supernatural is an added bonus. My area of specialty is the exploration of the sub-etheric space-time matrix in all its various forms."  
  
Stantz perked up fractionally as he always seemed to when on ground he was sure of. "Yes, sir. I went into it from a slightly different angle. This semester I'm in an advanced course offered through the archeology department on Akkadian Religious Practices. Everything stems from the Tigris-Euphrates basin, you know."  
  
"I was aware of that," Egon returned coolly, causing Ray to wilt, "though I won't be attending that class until next year."  
  
Peter frowned, the kind heart he usually took such pains to conceal objecting to Spengler's cavalier attitude toward the boy. Not that he, Peter, particularly cared, of course! It was just simple irritation at how his present labmate was acting, that's all.  
  
Peter's eyes narrowed, focusing on the slightly hunched figure beside him, at the wide amber eyes that never quite met Egon's, and the sad resignation that dampened the flashes Peter had caught of an almost irrepressible zeal for learning and life. Why anyone would be afraid of Egon Spengler was more than a little baffling, but that the boy was terrified was obvious. He looked as though he might bolt if anyone said a loud Boo! Feeling puckish, Peter opened his mouth to test his theory; what emerged, much to his own surprise, was the gentle suggestion, "Why don't you tell Egon about that copy of ..." He searched his mind rapidly, his near photographic memory coming up with the name of the book Stantz was reading at their initial introduction. "... Tobin's Spirit Guide that you found in the library?"  
  
If anything short of Einstein's return could have shattered Spengler's smug composure, Peter pinpointed it in the mention of that single title. "You found a copy of Tobin's?!" the physicist gasped, his square jaw sagging onto his breast. "Not in the original Coptic?"  
  
Ray shook his head, unclasping his hands for the first time to gesture. "Not the Coptic," he said, voice beginning to gain color. "The Latin translation that Marcus DeBuque did for the Vatican! It's only a reproduction, of course, but I don't think there's more than a couple of copies on the continent!"  
  
"There's no more than six in the world," Egon told him, leaning forward excitedly. "And one of them is in the hands of Dr. Scott MacDougle, the linguist. You do know he's working on an English translation for Cambridge? I've heard...."  
  
Peter nodded to himself, satisfied that his stratagem had worked. He glanced from one man to the other, snickering slightly at the sight of Egon, calm mask sloughed away and chattering like a schoolboy with a new toy. Ray, too, positively glowed with animation, his self-consciousness fading as the discussion progressed.  
  
"... a mint copy of De Vermis Mysteriis at Miskatonic," Egon was saying some minutes later, his blue eyes sparkling behind his thick frames. "I wasn't able to check it out of the facility, of course, but I was privileged to skim it during my sabbatical."  
  
"Did it mention Ahazarad?" Ray asked, scooting forward to sit on the edge of his chair.  
  
Egon nodded. "And Miskon. It was fascinating." He glanced at his watch, his eager expression fading back into his habitual control. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to tell you about it. I have an appointment with Professor McKenna in ten minutes. We'll have to continue the discussion on Wednesday."  
  
"Wednesday?" Stantz echoed blankly.  
  
Spengler fixed him with an inquiring look. "When you report. You are accepting the position, aren't you?"  
  
Ray blinked, astonished pleasure lighting his face like the sun. "Wow! I mean, uh, yes! Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"  
  
"On one condition," Peter said, beginning to feel left out of the conversation. "That you ..." He jerked his thumb at the tense Stantz. "... never call him ..." This time at Spengler. "... 'sir' again. It grates like a sore tooth."  
  
"Dr. Spengler?" Ray inquired meekly.  
  
The physicist smiled for the first time. "When we're not in class why don't you call me Egon," he offered with easy amiability. "Shall we see you Wednesday?"  
  
Ray's own smile nearly split his face in two, and Peter was surprised at the sheer quantity of warmth the boy's happiness could generate. "You bet! This'll be great!" He scrambled to his feet then turned to Peter, who was still watching benignly from the first desk. "I can help you, too, you know! Honest! I can help with your reports and stuff! I can even help you move in January if you want me to."  
  
"That'd be cool," Peter agreed, waving a cheery bye-bye and inwardly deciding that having a lab assistant around might not be too bad after all.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

Egon speed-read the last page then turned it over, placing it on top of the neat stack that occupied the right side of his old wood desk. "You did a good job setting up my quarterly report," he told the apprehensive young man seated across from him. "Very clear and concise. It's nearly ready for the typist."  
  
Ray's burgeoning half-smile faded. "Nearly?" he repeated, accepting the tendered sheaf. "What did I do wrong?"  
  
Spengler tapped the topmost sheet before releasing it. "The references you quoted to support page forty-seven were superceded by Walter Lovitz' third edition in 1976."  
  
"Gosh, I'm ... sorry." Ray stood clutching the papers, large eyes fixed on Egon's, shoulders braced as though awaiting a death sentence. "I should have checked."  
  
Spengler made a throw-away motion with one hand, using the other to fasten the top button on his cardigan. "A minor error, and easily rectified. You can find a copy of Lovitz in my personal library on ..." He pointed a long forefinger at the bookcase located against the opposing wall. "... that shelf. Would you hand me the latest file on the magnetite investigation before you go? It's cataloged under Metallurgy."  
  
Stantz got to his feet looking noticeably less effervescent than he had been when he'd first tendered the report; a quirk of his blond brows betrayed Egon's cognizance of this. He pulled his computer keyboard closer, staring vacantly at the screen until Ray hesitantly offered the requested file.  
  
"You'll grow accustomed to the various references I have available," Egon offered generously, riffling one tome with his thumb. "Give yourself some time - you've only been with me a little over a week."  
  
Ray hiked up his pantslegs then knelt by the bookcase, the red flannel of his shirt drawing tight across his back. "I should have checked before I turned it in. I'm sorry."  
  
"No problem." Egon waited until Ray had returned to Peter's desk with a thick volume held in both hands. "You'll find the information you require on page one hundred seventy-two, paragraph three. It's currently considered the definitive quantitative analysis on the subject."  
  
Ray nodded his thanks, the sound of pages rustling and keyboard tapping mingling amiably for some minutes. Then the rustling stopped and Ray uttered a tiny sound of revelation. "So that's what he was talking about," he exclaimed, brightening. "I didn't understand it the first time around."  
  
"No one understood it before Lovitz."  
  
"But...." The young student glanced up, apology gone in a rush of sudden comprehension. "If I'm getting this right, Lovitz actually proved that dimensional overlap has some effect on contra-terrain materials! Wow! This is a breakthrough! A real breakthrough!"  
  
Spengler nodded wisely. "A very significant one. Be sure you append that to the quarterly report."  
  
"Uh-huh." Still reading, Ray gathered up both book and report and stood. "I'd better move; Peter said he'd be back pretty soon and I didn't ask if I could use his desk."  
  
Egon lifted his eyes from the screen long enough to shoot Stantz a quick look. "Tell me, Raymond, how did you come to meet Peter? You've known him long?"  
  
Ray placed the paperwork reverently on a wobbly cardtable, then dropped into a folding chair, both squeezed between the cubicle and file cabinet to Egon's rear. "I didn't really know him," he corrected, absently smoothing a crease out of his jeans. "I only met him before. Twice." He correctly interpreted Egon's cocked brow as a request for more information. "He was with a girl I used to tutor. She ... uh ... introduced us but I met him before then."  
  
"When?" Egon prodded curiously.  
  
"A couple years ago. It was my first day on campus and I asked him for directions to the registrar."  
  
Egon rolled his eyes. "And he gave them to you?"  
  
Ray flushed. "He ... I ... ended up in downtown Newark."  
  
"Newark?" Egon stared disbelievingly at the younger man, then scratched his head, ruffling the blond wave. It immediately returned to its former arrangement, seemingly of its own accord. "How could you have ended up in Newark?"  
  
Ray laughed self-deprecatingly. "I guess I didn't know the subway well enough back then. It was an honest mistake ..." He paused, lifting his shoulder in a tiny half-shrug. "... or a joke. No big deal."  
  
"No, I suppose not." Spengler returned to his typing, a thoughtful frown creasing his planed features. He didn't look up when the phone rang, but allowed it to continue jangling until Ray got up to answer it.  
  
"Hello? Oh, hi, Shirley." Ray listened a moment, then shook his head. "No, Peter's not here right now." He listened again, then covered the speaker with his palm and looked up. "Egon, do you know where Peter went?"  
  
Long fingers froze on the keyboard for a nearly imperceptible instant of time. Then Spengler looked up, his face utterly bland. "Tell her he was going over to Twenty-Twenty-One Gerard and will be back shortly."  
  
Ray repeated the information then hung up, a puzzled look on his face. "That's funny. She sounded surprised."  
  
"Anyone who would go out with Peter Venkman is probably perpetually surprised," Egon remarked absently. "Would you also get me the Pere- Finnegan file?"  
  
It was actually no more than fifteen minutes later that Peter Venkman returned to the lab, head bare and face flushed with the damp frost that marked the typical New York City winter. He swirled inside, a trail of melting snowflakes dripping from his black jacket to leave miniature puddles on the floor. "'Lo!" he greeted the two within, shrugging himself out of the damp leather and hanging it on a nail. "Cold enough to freeze your 'A' out there."  
  
"Temperature is supposed to go up to thirty tomorrow," Egon remarked, shivering slightly in the sudden draft. "And would you close that door, please?"  
  
Peter stuck out his tongue then complied with a loud slam; Egon winced. "Wouldn't want you should catch your death, would we?" Peter asked in honeyed tones. He threw himself into his chair, scrubbing his hands vigorously on his blue wool shirt. "Man, if that temperature drops any further, we're going to need heavy duty bun warmers. Cold enough for you, farm boy?" This last was addressed to Ray, who looked up from his reading to grin.  
  
"I kind'a like winter," the student replied cheerfully. "The air is all crisp and clean, the snow is bright...."  
  
"It's cold out there," Peter interrupted in a whine. "You know what that means, don't you?" Ray shrugged; Peter shuddered. "No more miniskirts! No more shorts! No more halter tops!" He lifted his aquiline nose into the air, sighing dramatically. "The world ends, my son. And so do my hormones."  
  
That won him a laugh and a dismissive wave. Ray dipped his head back to his book then looked up again suddenly. "Oh, by the way, you got a call. It was...."  
  
The phone chose that moment to announce itself. Peter reached for it instantly. "Hold that thought, pal, let me take care of this one first. Hello? Shirley! What a pleasant surprise." He listened closely for several seconds, his pleased smile fading into confused astonishment. "But ... but, Shirley, I didn't.... No! Wait, I...!"  
  
There was a decisive click from the other end of the line audible even to the two men watching Peter with twin expressions of curiosity. Peter stared at the phone a moment, then hung up, his face clouding over. "Thanks a lot," he gritted, turning to glower at Ray. "I have to admit you caught me out on this one. This was revenge for the Newark gig, right?"  
  
Ray returned the look blankly. "Revenge?" he echoed, straightening. "I don't understand."  
  
Peter snorted indelicately, his fists on his hips. "Not that I don't appreciate the run. Telling Shirley I was going to Twenty-Twenty-One was pretty effective. She wouldn't even let me deny it; said you at least wouldn't lie."  
  
"I'm sorry. I d-don't...." Ray scrambled to his feet, both hands raised palms up in a gesture of helplessness. "I didn't mean.... I-I'm sorry."  
  
Egon cleared his throat. "Er, Peter," he began in a low rumble.  
  
Peter regarded Ray's miserable expression through narrowed eyes, the hard set to his jaw fading into a tiny smile. "Not bad," he chuckled, rising. "I didn't think you had it in you." He threw an arm around the badly confused Stantz and ushered him to the door. "Do me a favor and fetch me a cup of that topsoil Cage calls coffee. I need something to warm me up."  
  
He handed Ray out into the hall then carefully shut the door after him, turning to lean against its frosted pane. "Somebody somewhere," Peter said thoughtfully, "did one heck of a number on that kid's head. Shame."  
  
Egon left off his typing and folded his arms. "I expect him to outgrow much of his timidity, though he does seem to respond badly to even the intimation of failure or guilt. Probably something to do with his family background."  
  
Peter uttered a disgusted sound and returned to his chair, leaning back until he balanced it on two legs. "So now you're a psychiatrist, too?" he jeered. "Another Ph.D. you're working on? In my professional opinion, Doctor Spengler, the kid will outgrow some of that downer he's on; the rest is going to require a lot of friendly support." His accusing finger targeted the middle of Egon's chest. "And don't think I don't sense your fine hand in this thing with Shirley either ... now that I've made a total fool out of myself with Ray, that is."  
  
Blue eyes twinkled. "That's not much of an accomplishment," Spengler said, responding to the latter portion of the statement. "What gave things away? Not that I would have let Ray take any blame, of course, but sending him to Newark did deserve some form of a payback."  
  
Peter laughed out loud, good humor rapidly restoring itself. "I won't deny that even if it was two and a half years ago. And to answer your question, it dawned on me that that kid probably didn't have any idea that Twenty- Twenty-One was a neighborhood V.D. clinic. No wonder poor Shirley was pissed off." He sighed loudly, and rested his chin on his laced fingers. "Wish it hadn't been Shirley, though - chick had legs up to her neck."  
  
His lips twisted then, more of a smirk then a smile. "You do know what they say about paybacks?"  
  
Egon returned to his typing. "Take your best shot, Mr. Venkman," he invited smugly. "And may the best man win."  
  
"Don't worry," Peter returned with casual grace. "I will."  
  
***  
  
The agonizing jangle originated from somewhere near Peter's head. He groaned loudly but otherwise remained perfectly still, hoping against hope that that tormenting cacophony would not repeat itself. That proved to be a forlorn hope for noise once again exploded near his ear, increasing the ache in his temples by an order of magnitude.  
  
"Whoever you are," Peter grumbled, pressing a pillow over his face, "die."  
  
The phone rang again and Peter, in imminent danger of suffocation by now, rolled carefully onto his side and pawed the floor for the offending instrument. He found it after much searching, lifting it with one hand and pressing the other to his stomach, which was threatening him with loud rumbles.  
  
"Who is it?" he snapped, not really wanting to know.  
  
"Son?"  
  
"The gravelly voice on the other end of the line brought Peter upright in an instant. Unfortunately, his stomach reacted to the motion, violently; he clapped one hand to his mouth, having to fight the wave of nausea that brought bile to the back of his throat. It was several seconds before he could respond to the repeated interrogative. Finally, "Dad?"  
  
"Peter!" There was real relief in the other man. "Peter, son, you okay? You sound a little funny."  
  
Peter swallowed heavily and took a deep breath, forcing his eyelids to half- mast. "I'm fine, Dad. Went to a couple of Christmas parties last night and...."  
  
Charlie Venkman chuckled, and Peter could clearly picture in his mind the sparkle in the man's green eyes. "Say no more, son, I understand perfectly."  
  
There was a pause during which Peter swung his bare legs off the side of the bed and sat, his body tensing for the bad news he knew was on the way. "So, Dad," Peter began, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "why the phone call? I'm assuming it's not because you want to spend Christmas with me or anything."  
  
Charlie snorted. "Son, you know I could never get the hang of this Christmas stuff. A Jewish man ... a shiska wife ... no wonder you grew up confused."  
  
Peter clenched his teeth, recognizing an evasion when he heard one. "Where are you, Dad?" he gritted, his temples choosing that moment to increase their throbbing out of sheer malice.  
  
Charlie cleared his throat. "I'm ... uh ... in Atlantic City. In the Police Station. Got into a bit of trouble, Pete."  
  
"So what else is new," Peter muttered under his breath.  
  
"I need you to come down here and get me out. Gambling charge - nothing serious. Got $10,000 bail with ten."  
  
Mental calculations run less than smoothly when beset by the kind of hangovers, but Peter finally made the connection. "A thousand dollars?!" he gasped, regretting more than ever that he hadn't stayed over Monica's house last night as he'd originally intended. "Dad, where am I going to get a thousand dollars?"  
  
Charlie cleared his throat again. "Your Aunt Ruthie...."  
  
"Oh, God," Peter moaned, flopping back onto the bed. "Dad, there is no way on earth I am going to face Aunt Ruthie today. Besides, you know I don't have a car and most of the campus types are home for the holidays. You're going to have to sit tight for a couple of days until I can make some arrangements."  
  
"Pete.... Son...."  
  
There was a long pause during which Peter could actually sense the man's desperation coming through. He sat up again, a frown drawing his dark brows into a line. "There's more, isn't there?"  
  
"A lot more." Charlie sighed and there was a shuffling sound in the background as though someone was pacing a hard floor. "I got picked up at an illegal poker game here on Pennsylvania Avenue. Guy who runs the game, Pacelli, also handles the numbers for the city. Anyway, to make a long story short, I had a bit of a bad run of luck and...."  
  
"And you owe this guy Pacelli big," Peter finished wearily. "Therefore, the sooner you get out of town the longer your life expectancy is going to be."  
  
"I knew you'd understand!" Charlie exclaimed enthusiastically. "So how 'bout it, son? Come get your old dad out of this pigsty before Pacelli figures a way to get to me?"  
  
Peter groaned again and stood, catching himself against the wooden bedpost when he swayed. "I'll be down as soon as I can, Dad. Not for a couple hours, though."  
  
"That's my boy!" Charlie encouraged, and hung up.  
  
Peter glanced around the room blearily, seeking the clothes he'd discarded the previous night. He found them in a heap at the foot of the bed and pulled on jeans and flannel shirt over his briefs, then rummaged in the dresser for socks. "You're gonna owe me big for this one, Pop," he continued to mumble to himself. "Aunt Ruthie alone is gonna cost you big."  
  
Clothing arranged to his satisfaction, Peter glanced out the window, grimacing at the frost on the pane. "Gonna cost you big," he repeated, donning boots and heavy coat before heading for the door.  
  
The frat house was thoroughly deserted this second day before Christmas, and Peter left the solid building reluctantly, his feet crunching in the new layer of snow which blanketed the ground. The frigid temperature had a reviving effect, the chill air wiping away the cobwebs misting Peter's brain like a broom. He breathed deeply, almost enjoying the crisp blue sky and bright sun. Then the difficulties of his task struck again, and he frowned.  
  
"Got to score a car somewhere," he told himself, glancing up and down the empty walkway. "Frisco's gone already, Madalyn went home to her parents', Connie left school last semester...." The list went on, as Peter tromped across campus knocking on doors. In the end the upshot was simply that there was no one around that Peter could borrow a car from. Disheartened, he seated himself on a conveniently placed bench to think.  
  
"I could have rented one," he told himself, "but my Visa is over the limit already. Can't even get to Aunt Ruthie's without a car and I'm short on cash. Can't think of anyone...." He stopped, an expression of distasteful revelation crossing his lean features. "Maybe there is one person around yet."  
  
A three block walk brought him to the front door of a moderately expensive apartment building, brick-faced and security sealed - the latter solved by the expedient use of Peter's student ID card. The lock snicked open and Peter entered, striding boldly up to the mail boxes and stopping to read. "Spengler ... Spengler.... Crumb probably owns the penthouse."  
  
He was wrong, but as luck would have it, a long search was unnecessary. The sound of a creaking door came from directly overhead then the heavy thud of large feet on the tiles. Another moment and the man himself appeared on the staircase, bearing a load of laundry under each arm and plastic pouches of detergent in his mouth. Peter leaped forward, drawing on an amiable smile for effect. "Egon, old man! I was just looking for you!"  
  
"Cmp't mnaginnne hye," was the nearly indecipherable reply. Peter obligingly removed the packets from the man's mouth, ignoring the exasperated glare he got in return. "Your presence here during the holiday season is highly suspicious, Venkman," Egon went on, licking his lips. "What do you want?"  
  
Peter's smile widened. "What makes you think I want anything?" he volleyed, trailing the blond down the hall. "Can't I just want to stop in and see a buddy the day before Christmas?"  
  
Egon paused at the top of the cellar stare to shoot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "No," he replied succinctly, descending the steep incline carefully. "And I don't have time anyway. I'm scheduled to give a presentation before the American Scientific Association of New York in precisely one hour, thirty-one minutes, on the application of Einstein's Multi-particulate theorem to the problem of sub-etheric mechanics. I cannot afford to be even a minute late - two members of the college board will be there as well as fully half my parapsychology class. And I'm completely out of clean shirts."  
  
Peter followed him down, sighing inwardly though never losing his smile. This was going to be a tough one. "Really? That sounds really cool, Spengs! I'm sure you'll be a real hit."  
  
"It's going," Spengler corrected him sourly, "to be the hardest presentation of my life. No more than a handful of the attendees even subscribe to the paranormal existence much less are interested in hearing it expounded on their final meeting before vacation."  
  
Peter waited while Egon dropped a bundle of white shirts into one of the top loaders before passing across the soap. "I'm sure you'll wow'em, buddy."  
  
Egon started the first machine then turned to regard the younger man suspiciously. "What do you want, Venkman?" he repeated.  
  
Peter raised both hands wide, his exotic green eyes growing nearly round with guileless candor. "Just a tiny little favor, buddy. All I want to do is borrow your car for the day. See? Practically nothing to it at all."  
  
"My car?" Suspicion translated into blank incredulity for a single moment. "What do you want with my car?" Blond waves shook determinedly. "You've got to be kidding. I wouldn't trust you with my laundry, and I should trust you with my Volvo?"  
  
Peter's smile dipped for the first time. "All right, listen, man, I'll level with you. It's not a personal favor though I'll treat it as one. My Dad got into some trouble and I have to go get him clear. If I don't, it could finish him. Dig?"  
  
Suspicion returned full rein. Egon loaded the second washer with jeans, socks and vari-colored items, then set the selector. "Assuming I believed you at all - which I know better than to do - why would I particularly care?"  
  
That did it. Peter stepped forward until he'd bracketed the man between the washers and the door, hearing and hating the desperation seeping into his voice despite his best efforts. "No con this time, man. It's for my Dad."  
  
The two regarded each other across the space of a single foot. Blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Peter took advantage of the indecision to play his trump card. "And," he went on, pulling out his wallet, "I can make it worth your while."  
  
"How much?" Spengler asked with disdain.  
  
This time Peter's smile was genuine. He flipped open the worn leather, exposing a glossy photo he kept there for easy - and frequent - reference. He turned the wallet around, sharing the picture with Spengler. "How about ... this?"  
  
"Holy jumping catfish!" Sky blue eyes widened big as saucers. The gold- metallic spectacles slid down Spengler's long nose and hung there unheeded at the tip. "That's...."  
  
"Frieda LesMartin," Peter supplied helpfully, sensing victory growing closer by the second. "One of the cheerleaders. She's a ... real nice girl when you get to know her. And I can arrange for you to know her, if you know what I mean."  
  
Egon gulped loudly and shut his sagging mouth with a snap. "What makes you think she'd be interested in dating me on your say-so?"  
  
Peter nodded, a useless gesture considering the blond's eyes were fixed on the photo as though glued there. "She will. Interested?"  
  
"Well...." Spengler affected a casual shrug, purely feigned. "I suppose I can afford to spare the car for a couple of hours."  
  
"That's the spirit!" Peter encouraged, cradling his wallet in one palm though not closing it completely. "If I can have your keys?"  
  
Egon came to himself with a visible wrench. With obvious reluctance he dug into his pocket and extracted a large set of keys. He pulled one from the chain and passed it over, his fingers tightening even as Peter touched it. "I don't want any scratches or 'accidents,'" he ordered sternly, his chin jutting at a dangerous angle. "And I want you to remember this the next time I ask you for a little cooperation in the lab. For example, I'll need absolute quiet all of next week if I'm to study for that test on the Sumerian language set for Friday afternoon. Agreed?"  
  
"You got it, buddy!" Peter agreed heartily.  
  
Egon stared at him suspiciously for a long moment, then released the key and turned on his heel. "I'm free next Saturday evening," he remarked casually enough, but Peter noticed the barely detectable quaver in his voice. "This had better not be a trick, either."  
  
"No trick," Peter assured him, waving gaily as the man climbed the steps. Peter's smile vanished as soon as Egon had, a flash of irritation tinting his green eyes emerald. "Prig," he muttered. "Knew I'd end up with a lecture. Probably would have gone a lot longer if you didn't have to rush for your presentation." He stared at the gurgling washers, a crafty gleam replacing the irritation. "Paybacks," he went on, chuckling to himself.  
  
With a little grimace of distaste, he opened the second washer and fished around inside, emerging with a bright red sock held between thumb and forefinger. "Hope you like pink shirts, Spengler," he chortled, dropping it into the first machine. He closed both lids and restarted the washers, then strolled casually out of the building looking, if possible, even more innocent than before. Yep, he thought, it was going to be a pretty good day after all. He paused, calling softly to the closed door, "And good luck with your presentation ... thweetie."  
  
***  
  
Ray ran a damp paper towel over the top of the card table, whistling merrily to himself all the while. He still couldn't believe his good fortune in landing the job here at the lab. Working with Egon Spengler had been one of his dreams ever since the blond genius had transferred to Columbia. Spengler had already made his mark at M.I.T., where he'd quickly garnered a reputation as a wunderkind extraordinaire, that would take him far in the scientific community both in the realm of physics and, Ray was sure, parapsychology as well.  
  
"Parapsychology. The paranormal. The supernatural." Ray rolled the familiar terms around on his tongue, savoring their familiar flavor. The sheer love of creation had dictated his primary vocation, and he shivered to think that in just one short year he'd be the proud owner of a brand new Bachelor's of Science degree in Engineering. But his interest in the supernatural was a long standing one as well, leading back to the time he'd seen his first Dracula movie when he was four. Ray had been fascinated by the notion of worlds residing beyond his own tiny sphere of experience, and he'd immediately begun his own investigations into the subject, starting with Creepy magazine that same week and leading into the revered tomes of lore that now formed the major bulk of his reading material. He'd learned Latin as a matter of necessity, of course, and was picking up bits and pieces of Greek, opening up whole new possibilities of research.  
  
The opportunity to work with Dr. Spengler was almost too good to be true. Until he'd heard of Spengler's research it had never occurred to Ray that there would be a way for him to merge his two great passions into one constructive science, but Spengler was doing it, and Ray's quick mind was seeing new possibilities as well, ways to use his engineering skills to further Egon's sub-etheric physical research.  
  
Ray again bent to the task of tidying the office, worried lest Dr. Spengler think he was goofing off and dismiss him. The thought alone quickened Ray's pulse, his gut tightening with that age-old terror of failure. He was being silly, he told himself, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands on his jeans. Surely Egon wouldn't fire him simply because a table wasn't completely clean? But the nagging fear did not abate, and Ray decided to clean both his and Peter's desks as well, just in case.  
  
Egon's neat-as-ever desk posed no problems; Ray simply applied his damp rag to the few particles of dust clinging to its surface, then returned the neatly stacked papers precisely where they had been. The thought that Egon would still know that they'd been touched made Ray bite his lip; the physicist was precise to the last millimeter when it came to his work, though the one time Ray had been to the man's apartment there had been soiled laundry and newspapers scattered across the living room floor. The desk, however, was flawless.  
  
Ray moved next to Peter's domain, grimacing at the untidy sheaves of notes, reports and assorted paraphernalia littering the desktop. Ray clenched his teeth and disposed of a half-eaten sandwich and empty Coke can, twisting the top of the trashbag closed against the smell. Then he swept the assorted pens and pencils into the top drawer, having to remove an old sock and melted candy bar to make them fit.  
  
This task accomplished, Ray sat down to organize the paperwork. Besides the usual student profiles, he found personal correspondence and photographs, all from females. This made Ray smile, for the one thing Peter Venkman had never suffered a dearth of was feminine companionship. Ray seated himself in Peter's chair, closing his eyes and trying to imagine what it must be like to be Peter Venkman. Obligingly, Peter's form flashed itself across his lids. Dark haired and handsome, Peter stood tall, his shoulders braced by the most supreme self-confidence Ray had ever seen. The devil-may-care grin said, "I'm important!" far more effectively than any spoken word could have, and, unlike most people this claim was true for Peter Venkman was probably one of the brightest and most intelligent men on campus ... after Dr. Spengler, Ray added to himself. But it must be admitted that there were many people on campus who had never heard of Egon Spengler; the same could not be true for Peter Venkman.  
  
Ray opened his eyes, ashamed of the envy which brushed him at the thought. Shy and quiet, popularity was never something Ray had been able to claim for himself. He'd come to Columbia straight from a small farming community, a far cry from the Brooklyn-bred, hard-as-nails Venkman. Peter revelled in the fast-paced life as though he'd been born to it - as well he had - and Ray could only stand back and admire the ease with which the man related to anyone and everyone along any prescribed social stratum. And the ladies....  
  
He recalled the last time he had seen the young psychologist, dressed in tight slacks and open shirt, prepared for the latest in a seemingly never- ending series of parties the man had been attending since the Christmas season had started. He'd asked Ray along, even including Egon as an afterthought, and had seemed oddly disappointed when both had declined. Egon had met his parents in town for the holidays, while Ray spent Christmas day with his aunt. It had never occurred to him then to ask who Peter would be spending the holiday with.  
  
Envy evaporated. Ray sighed deeply, suddenly understanding the air of loneliness that had shrouded the man, regretting that he had not accepted Peter's invitation nor offered one of his own. Something glossy caught his eye then, pulling him out of the empathic melancholy that nibbled at his good mood. He shuffled the report he held into some semblance of page order and retrieved what turned out to be a photograph. He pulled it out of it's protective sheath and held it up to the light, gasping when it turned out to be of a tall, chestnut haired beauty wearing ... nothing. Color flooded Ray's cheeks and he guiltily returned it to the envelope, though an afterimage burned on his eyelids, insisting on replaying every detail of the very revealing picture. Ray remembered again the passionate inscription, and blushed deeper even as he wondered who the woman was and whether Peter dated her regularly.  
  
A thought struck him then, a stray memory of Peter having produced a photograph at intervals from an envelope very like this one. It appeared regularly whenever Egon sat down to study for the make-up test in the Sumerian languages course that he was scheduled to take this morning. Ray frowned, recalling how flustered the blond always got and the low, sustained cursing aimed in Peter's direction that had gone on for nearly ten minutes the last time the photo had made an appearance. Could this have been the cause? But why would the sight of a beautiful woman have disconcerted the perpetually calm man so much?  
  
He sighed again and shoved the photo under the stack of reports, wishing mightily that he had the ability to even stammer his own name around such a woman - or any woman - much less actually speak to such a beauty. He'd just finished organizing Venkman's file drawer when the door opened and Egon Spengler arrived. Ray immediately jumped to his feet, certain his heightened coloration would tell the perceptive older man precisely what he had found in Peter's belongings.  
  
Egon seemed to notice nothing amiss, however, simply nodded amiably and hung up his coat. "There must be six inches of snow out there," he grumbled, bending to brush droplets from his pants legs. "And I think the temperature is dropping again."  
  
Ray glanced out the window. From where he stood he could see the main walkway and gardens, all blanketed in white and sparkling like diamonds in the morning sun. He smiled, photograph forgotten. "Yeah, isn't it great?! Maybe tomorrow I'll take my skates over to Rockefeller Center. I haven't had a chance to try them out at all since I got here."  
  
Egon finished brushing down his clothes and took his seat, running a hand through his drooping blond curl. It obediently sprang up, resuming its normal coiffure without further effort. "You've been cleaning again, haven't you?" he asked after a single glance at his desk.  
  
Ray resisted the urge to laugh at that. He patted the last of Venkman's papers into order and stepped back. "Just straightened up a bit. The cleaning people don't always do a very good job."  
  
"The cleaning people rarely do an adequate job," the blond agreed, rubbing his hands up and down his thin arms to warm them. Once done, he retrieved a stack of correspondence from one drawer and slit the first envelope open. "They're obviously on salary. If people were paid for accomplishment rather than duration I'm certain they'd be more efficient in their employment."  
  
Ray shuffled his feet, hoping Spengler wasn't talking about him. "How ... how did your test go?" he asked, grabbing on the first thing he could think of to say. He nearly flinched at the angry glare that brought him, though it immediately muted into unaimed exasperation.  
  
The envelope crumpled in one big hand. "My test," Egon growled through gritted teeth, "would have gone better had I had some uninterrupted study time and less distractions."  
  
Ray did take a step back then, feeling himself pale at the other's undisguised indignation. "I'm-I'm sorry," he stammered wishing he were anywhere else. "I-I didn't mean to...."  
  
Spengler's face cleared though something still smoldered behind the sapphire eyes. "I wasn't referring to you," he grumbled, casting a meaningful look at the empty desk facing him. He sighed and shook his head. "Why don't you take the afternoon off, Raymond?" he suggested, pulling out a sheet of foolscap. "You're not hired to work during your Christmas vacation anyway."  
  
Ray froze, his eyes widening fearfully. "What did I do wrong?" he asked, tightening against the worst.  
  
Egon looked up at that. "Nothing at all. You've handled your position more than competently."  
  
"Then why don't you want me to stay?"  
  
"I simply assumed that you wouldn't want to work today." The blond made a throw-away gesture with the envelope at the window. "After all, we can only afford to pay you for a few hours a day, and you already contribute far more than that."  
  
Ray relaxed fractionally, though he remained wary. "You're working today," he pointed out. "Aren't you on vacation too?"  
  
"I," Spengler said, raising a long forefinger, "am in charge of the project. It's my responsibility to see that things get accomplished on time no matter what day it is."  
  
"Then ... I can stay?" Ray asked the question quietly, without much hope. Dr. Spengler was a nice man. If he was only trying to let him down easily....  
  
To Ray there was no more heartening sight than the warm smile that curled Spengler's full mouth; it gave him the courage to smile back. "I was hoping you would want to," the blond said in that so-deep voice. "I've got a lot of work to catch up on and your assistance would be invaluable. Pull up a chair, please."  
  
When Ray was seated, Spengler pushed his correspondence to the side and picked up a file instead, opening the first page and gesturing Ray closer. "I've finished rough specs on a prototype extra-dimensional gauge. I theorize that this device will allow us to detect breaches in space-time by measuring the amount of what Dr. Vodrovski defines as a form of sub-etheric energy emissions. If this device works we could recognize alien visitation by their energy tracings. It will revolutionize the entire field of paranormal investigations!"  
  
The elan in the deep bass raised like excitement in Ray's own chest. He leaned forward and studied the sketches avidly while Spengler waited in satisfied silence. Ray could follow some of the mechanics relatively well though the rationality behind many of the circuits escaped him.  
  
"I don't understand a lot of this ... yet," he admitted, the 'yet' a private plea that he would understand given a few more years' education and a lot more experience. "But I can follow most of the requirements well enough. The mathematics...." He shook his head, despairing of ever reaching a level when this melange of figures would make sense.  
  
Spengler clapped him on the shoulder. "Give yourself time to get your degree, Raymond. The rest of this will come later." He pressed the file into Ray's ready hands, adding a list of needed materials from his 'in' basket. "I'll be working with you on initial assemblage, since much of this design will have to be modified as we go along. Gather what we need from stores and I'll talk to McKenna about anything not in stock. I'd like to have it ready to test before summer semesters begin."  
  
"Okay." Ray picked up the file, handling it almost ceremoniously. "Do you really think this will let us detect aliens or ghosts or whatever has been reported for thousands of years?"  
  
Spengler opened his mouth, then smiled crookedly. "That is my theory. Unfortunately, that's been my theory through four previous prototype designs. I hope to have better luck with this one."  
  
Using the list Ray began to collect the heterogeneous components and parts that he would need to begin construction, finding several of them scattered throughout the lab. He gleaned what he could, then spread some newspapers on the floor and sat down to do some much needed sorting. Meanwhile, Egon made a phone call to McKenna's secretary. They were discussing options on filling power requirements when the door opened and a man walked into the room.  
  
"May I help you?" Egon inquired politely, looking the stranger up and down. Ray looked too, seeing a man of about his own height, with thinning dark hair and a pencil mustache. A polyester leisure suit peeked out of the cheap overcoat, but what caught Ray's attention was the man's eyes; they were green and somewhat familiar though Ray was certain he'd never seen the man before in his life, and unnervingly sharp though humor twinkled in their depths.  
  
The stranger swept them all with a glance, his head bobbing in acknowledgement. "Hope I got the right place!" he exclaimed in a New York- Jewish accent. "I'm looking for Peter Venkman. You boys know him?"  
  
"Sure!" Ray returned, climbing to his feet. "This is Peter's lab!"  
  
"Pete shares this lab." Egon revised Ray's statement firmly, also standing. "Peter isn't here right now, Mr. ...?"  
  
The man stepped forward, grabbing Egon's unoffered hand and pumping it fervently. "Venkman! Charlie Venkman. I'm Peter's father. You have to be Dr. Spencer."  
  
"Spengler," Egon corrected, his jaw tightening. "Dr. Egon Spengler."  
  
"Right! That's what I said!" He doggedly held on to Egon's hand several more seconds then released it and turned to Ray. "Who are you, son?"  
  
Ray's own hand was taken in a surprisingly firm grip, the familiarity of the other's eyes suddenly resolving itself in his mind. They were mirror images of Peter's. "I'm Ray Stantz. I just work for Peter and Egon."  
  
"I'm sure you do an excellent job of it!" the man countered heartily. He turned in place, examining the small room with evident approval. "Nice place you got here," he said, nodding again, and this time Ray could see the paternal pride fairly glowing in the man's face. "My boy did good for himself, I see. Is this Pete's?" He threw himself into the vacant chair, patting the desktop as though it were a puppy. "Very nice indeed. Knew my boy would make good."  
  
Egon, still standing, waved vaguely in the direction of the door. "We don't know if Peter will be by today, and we are rather busy. Perhaps I can give you his home address...?"  
  
But Venkman settled back, crossing his legs comfortably at the knee. "Talked to Pete this morning. He said he'd meet me here. I'm sure you boys don't mind if I wait a bit?" He shivered inside his coat, clapping his hands together. "Sure gets cold outside, after all."  
  
Made helpless by an inbred gallantry, Egon sighed and reseated himself. "Oh course not, sir," he said with forced courtesy. "Please make yourself at home. You'll excuse us if we continue our work."  
  
"No problem-O." The older man waggled a magnanimous hand. "You won't even know I'm here."  
  
Egon and Ray returned to their individual tasks, Ray again seating himself on the newspapers and picking up a circuit board. Silence reigned for nearly two minutes. "Pete was the first, you know," Charlie spoke up, garnering two blank stares.  
  
"The first what?" Egon asked, having obviously forgotten the man was there.  
  
Venkman waved generally. "The first in the family to go to college, of course! We always knew he was a bright boy, his mom and me. Knew it from the time he started to talk." He tapped his own temple, nodding sagely. "Smart as a whip. We're real proud. Yep. Real proud."  
  
Ray could believe that, could see it in the man's face and hear it in the pleased tone of the gravelly tenor. "I'm sure you are," Egon answered dryly, conspicuously returning to his task.  
  
Ignoring the hint, the elder man laced his fingers together behind his head and studied the ceiling. "First to go to college, that's my boy. Not that the rest of us are slackers," he added, shooting a glance Ray's way. "We just got our education by experience, that's all. No substitute for experience, that's my motto."  
  
"Peter has experience," Ray spoke up, feeling a need to defend his hero even against this man.  
  
Charlie nodded. "You bet'cha he does! Taught him myself, everything he knows." He undid the topmost button of his white shirt, staring down his long nose at Ray's upturned face. "I'm a part owner-executive, you know. Big company."  
  
He waited expectantly until Ray asked, "What company is that, Mr. Venkman?"  
  
Charlie puffed his chest out importantly. "Aguila Estates, Inc. We're in the process of building a resort in Mesina, Nevada, about thirty miles from Reno." He fished into his breast pocket, withdrawing a slender sheaf of brochures. He handed them to Egon, who glanced at them then passed them to Ray. "This is an artist's conception of what Aguila Estates will look like upon completion. We're hoping to add another hundred units before the next decade ends."  
  
"Wow!" Ray breathed, rapidly reading the pamphlet. "A four hundred percent return on all investments? That's great!"  
  
"That's guaranteed profit," Venkman assured him. "As a matter of fact ..." He flipped open another, larger sheaf covered with fine print. "... there's still a few shares left for smart investors like you two. For only one thousand down I could write you up as a co-owner." He raised one finger, pressing the contracts against his heart. "Just think of it! Four hundred percent profit!"  
  
"Wow!" Ray repeated. Then the reality of his position set in and he regretfully handed the brochure back. "But I don't have a thousand dollars."  
  
"Five hundred?" Venkman suggested hopefully. "How about two-fifty?"  
  
Ray shook his head. "Sorry."  
  
Charlie shrugged. "What about you, Dr. Spengler? Want to get in on the ground floor? Once in a lifetime deal."  
  
Narrow blue eyes met guileless green; Egon tilted his head looking for all the world like an entomologist examining a cockroach. "Mesina, Nevada, gets less than six inches of rainfall per year," Spengler began, adopting a tone Ray recognized from the lecture hall. "To acquire the steady supply of water necessary for simple construction much less operation of a resort hotel, you will have to set up a pumping station on-site, drilling down a hundred meters through bedrock. Design cost alone is prohibitive of such a plan much less profit." He paused. "And you say that you're part owner of this enterprise?"  
  
Charlie gulped and hurriedly stowed his brochures. "Actually, I'm just an employee. No real connection at all."  
  
"I see." Egon bent his head and Charlie maintained his peace, getting up to wander the lab after some minutes. He was poking around in the frosted glass cubicle when the door again opened to admit the flushed and harried Peter Venkman.  
  
"Cold, cold, cold!" he proclaimed, dropping his jacket onto the file cabinet and throwing himself into his chair. "Wish summer would hurry up. Man could catch his death this way."  
  
"Peter," Ray began, intending to announce Charlie's presence.  
  
Peter motioned for silence, his features taking on a careful neutrality in which Ray would one day sense danger. He dug into his stack of papers, finding the envelope-encased photograph without hesitation. "Oh, Eeee- gon," he caroled, opening the flap. "I heard you only got a B- in your Ancient Languages test this morning." He clucked his tongue sadly and pulled out the photo. "What's the matter, pal? Were you distracted by anything? And, gee, don't you have something planned for the weekend?"  
  
Puzzled, Ray shifted his stare from Peter to Egon, perplexed by the baleful glare the physicist shot Venkman's way. "I owe you, Venkman," the blond stated flatly. "That B cost me the highest grade-point average of the class."  
  
Peter grinned then slid the photo back out of sight. "Oh, well. Guess you'll have to settle for just passing, like the rest of us peons."  
  
"That's not what I taught you, son," a gravelly voice interrupted. Peter gaped, staring incredulously as Charlie Venkman stepped from behind the partition, both hands extended. "Wass'a matter? You don't say hi to yer old man any more?"  
  
Peter leaped to his feet, throwing himself into his father's arms. "Dad! I wasn't really expecting...! I mean, I know you called but...."  
  
"Hey, hey!" Charlie hugged his son unabashedly, then stepped back, holding him by both arms and examining him critically. "You're lookin' good, son - real good. I'm glad to see you."  
  
"You too, Dad," Peter returned happily. "How long are you in town for?"  
  
Charlie shrugged. "Couple days maybe. Got a ... er ..." He cast a nervous look in Egon's direction; Spengler stared back blandly. "... sales meeting tomorrow. Then I'm off again. I'll tell you all about it over dinner."  
  
"I'm sure you will," Peter smirked, and Ray wondered what it was that amused him so about his father's business.  
  
Charlie grinned in return and twined his arm through his son's. He looked around the room again, his shoulders coming back, his head up, and Ray was astonished to note how much taller the man looked; he was closer to Peter's six feet than he was to Ray's own five foot, ten. "Sure am proud of you, Peter," Charlie stated, fixing his stare again on Egon. "Hey, Dr. Spengler, my boy's got an important job here, eh? Good scientist?"  
  
Peter stiffened slightly at that innocuous question, his green eyes flashing something that Ray tentatively identified as dismay. Ray transferred his gaze to Egon, who hesitated almost imperceptibly before nodding. "Yes, sir," he agreed solemnly. "Peter is making important contributions to the research fields."  
  
Charlie beamed and Peter relaxed, his expression still congenial though something new lived in his eyes. Gratitude? "We'd better get going, Dad," Peter said affably, shooing his father toward the door. "We can get something to eat off-campus. It's not far to Didonato's from here." He waited until Charlie had disappeared through the door before returning to his desk and retrieving the photograph, this time leaving it in its concealing sheath. "I believe this belongs to you," Peter offered. He handed the envelope to Egon, and Ray got the oddest impression, as though he were handing across something far more valuable than a picture of a naked woman.  
  
Egon, too, accepted it as such, holding it between thumb and forefinger, a wry smile on his mouth. "I'm looking forward to Saturday," he added, raising a brow.  
  
Peter snorted. "I doubt you're going to survive Saturday, but go with my blessings." He saluted Egon, winked at Ray and followed his father into the hall. The two could be heard laughing all the way to the stairs.  
  
"What was that all about?" Ray asked curiously.  
  
Egon placed the envelope into the top drawer of his desk and reopened his file. "Call it a ... peace offering," he answered cryptically. "Now about that power unit...."  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

"Yo, kid! You're here early. We never see you before noon."  
  
Peter's hearty hale snapped Ray around like a shot, brown eyes wide. "Peter! I didn't hear you come in!"  
  
"Well, that much was obvious," Venkman retorted, propping the door open with a conveniently placed brick. "What are you doing here by yourself?"  
  
Ray gulped, twisting one sleeve of his wool pullover in his fingers. After a month and a half's association, he'd begun to relax considerably under Peter's casual overtures of friendship. So slowly as to be virtually unnoticeable at first, Ray's trepidation was giving way to attachment, awe now mingled with genuine liking for the gregarious psychologist. Unfortunately, this anxious reaction to anything resembling censor had stubbornly persisted despite all reassurances, to the point where Peter's never-legendary patience had begun showing serious cracks. His stern look only added to Stantz' discomfiture, and Ray shifted his feet looking as though he wanted to bolt.  
  
"Doctor Spengler said I could ... could start early this morning," Stantz began in a rush, "because I-I don't have any classes. But he wasn't here and...."  
  
Peter appealed heavenward, imperfectly concealed exasperation radiating like a beacon. "I didn't say I had a problem with it," he returned acidly. "I was only asking a question."  
  
Stantz flushed and turned away, stammered apology trailing off into miserable silence as it so often did. Peter unzipped his black jacket at the throat, the leather creaking as he windmilled his arms into returning circulation. He went first to his desk and shuffled through the mail Ray had neatly stacked in his in-basket, then moved to the large cabinet and retrieved two files, both marked Confidential. Finally, he turned toward the mute figure by the window, staring thoughtfully at the bent auburn head for some seconds before speaking again.  
  
"What's so fascinating out there?" he asked in a gentler tone, crossing the room to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Stantz. "You look like something out of Lost in Space."  
  
Ray took a step to the side and pointed to a group of bundled students making their way through the snow. One of them toted a sled on which a ski- jacketed female was riding; all were laughing and all seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely. "I was just remembering how much I used to like sledding. I haven't been able to go since I was a young."  
  
"Way back when, eh?" Peter teased, slapping the boy companionably on the arm.  
  
Ray peeked at him warily, obviously encouraged by the lack of reproach in Peter's handsome face. "I was about eight last time I went," he elaborated, a shy smile lifting his lips. "There was this big hill right near the house and my Dad...." He broke off, face suddenly veiled. "Well, we used to go. Winter's always been my favorite time of year."  
  
"Uh-huh." Peter made no mention of the mood change; rather, he watched the sledders as they started a snowball fight, only the bright colors of their coats visible through the rising cloud. "Can't say my Dad and I used to do much in the way of sledding; kind of hard to find a bare hill in Brooklyn, if you know what I mean." He stretched, then rested both hands against the window, his breath fogging the chilled pane instantly. "We did go to Tahoe for some skiing one year. Didn't make it to the slopes but I did get to see the inside of every illegal card game in town. Not a bad way to hibernate, eh?"  
  
"Guess not," Stantz returned doubtfully.  
  
"Course not. Any idea what happened to Egon?"  
  
Ray shook his head. "He said he would be in early. I wonder what held him up?" Peter leered amiably. "Or who. I've been trying to call him since midnight Saturday but he hasn't been home." He glanced at his watch, sticking his tongue firmly in his cheek. "Hmmmm, almost three days. Hope Frieda at least left him in one piece. It'd be a terrible thing if I had to run this lab all by myself, wouldn't it?"  
  
The two looked around at a sound coming from the direction of the door. Two coeds in tight slacks stood in the entrance, hands over their mouths in an unsuccessful attempt at smothering giggles. One of them glanced at something hidden in the palm of her hand, then showed it to her companion, eliciting a whole new spate of laughter as the females wandered off.  
  
"What was that all about?" Peter wondered, staring after them. A tall blonde strolled by then, stopping to blow Peter a kiss before continuing on her way. "You know who they were?"  
  
"Not me," Ray demurred, scratching his head. "You mean you don't know those women?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Peter turned his back, just missing the sight of yet another young female, also carrying something hidden in her palm. She paused in the doorway, compared whatever she was holding to Peter, then winked at Ray and skipped off, her grin bringing a crease to Ray's brow. "I wonder...." he began.  
  
He shrugged and looked at Venkman, who was again breathing gently on the glass. "Just ignore it," Peter ordered between puffs. "It'd be uncool to acknowledge the strike ... whatever it is." He continued to puff gently until the view without was completely obscured. He drew two lines across and down on the steamed surface, then filled the center one with an X. "Your turn," he said, nudging Ray with his elbow. "And be warned, I'm Tic- Tac-Toe champion of my dorm."  
  
The two played six games to a draw then gave up, Peter to revise his records for the new semester, Ray to wander the office, straighten files and make himself generally useful, all under Peter's supervision. The building was settling into its usual active buzz after the relative peace of the holidays, students and teachers bustling in the hallways on their way between class and labs. The morning passed peacefully except for the frequent invasion of giggling, simpering, grinning or simply interested females, who would insist on intruding just long enough to examine Peter before beating a rapid retreat.  
  
By noon the parade of amused femininity had not abated, and even the never- uncool Peter Venkman was ready to break. "That does it," he fumed, slamming shut the heavy volume he was reading. "The next chick that swings by is going to spill what's going on or I'll ring her neck."  
  
Ray, seated on the floor surrounded by old journals, looked up curiously. "Why don't I just shut the door?" he suggested, rubbing his cheek and leaving a smear of newsprint behind. "That way you won't have to see them."  
  
Peter pushed back his chair and rose, stalking the door like a panther and positioning himself on the far side of it, flat against the wall. "Because I'm about to go crazy wondering," he admitted ruefully. "I just hope...." He caught his breath, holding it as a head poked into the room, long blond hair falling forward to obscure the face. "Got 'cha!" Peter cheered, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking.  
  
The squawk was immediate - and decidedly masculine. Peter gaped, his head tilting back several inches until he was staring into the offended face of Chuck Weaver. "What'd yuh wanna go and do that fer, Pete?" Weaver complained, massaging his head.  
  
Peter closed his mouth, recovering instantly. He tugged Weaver inside and closed the door in the face of a tiny oriental coed. "Listen, Chuck," he hissed, leaning his weight on the door, "something screwy's going on around here and I'm starting to get pissed."  
  
Weaver nodded, a mischievous twinkle lighting his pale blue eyes. "Anything to do with the way them chicks were eying you funny? Like you were ..."  
  
"... Prime Rib?" Peter supplied, poking Weaver in his sports letter. "C'mon, pal, give. What's going down with your poor old Uncle Peter?"  
  
"What's going down...." Weaver began, chuckling. He caught sight of Ray then, who was watching curiously from his position on the floor. "Who are you?"  
  
Ray scrambled up, biting his lip. "I can wait outside," he offered quickly, sidling across the room. "I'm sorry...."  
  
Peter waved him back testily. "Stay where you are," he ordered. "C'mon, Chuck. What?"  
  
Weaver looked Ray up and down once more then turned his back on him to sling a companionable arm across Peter's shoulders. "What's coming down, my man, is this." He fished into his pants pocket, retrieving a one-inch square piece of glossy paper, then passed it across. "I managed to get this away from Lorna Evans. She wasn't going to give it up but she had two and was willing to barter."  
  
Peter accepted the paper and raised it to eye level. "Okay, so it's a picture ... of...." He stiffened in Weaver's light grip, mouth sagging open. "Of ... me?" he finished in a squeak. "It's a picture of me! And I'm ... naked!"  
  
Weaver clenched his teeth but the guffaw escaped anyway. "They're all over the campus," he explained, snickering. "Someone had them handed out to all the dorms. There's even 8x10s on the bulletin boards."  
  
Cheeks reddening until they resembled two apples, Peter glared green fire at the less-than-innocent photo. "And where did this come from?" he demanded in a low voice. "I don't remember having it taken."  
  
Weaver shrugged and winked at Ray, whose eyes were beginning to glow with amusement. "Can't answer that part, good buddy. Must've been a ..." He snickered again. "... real close friend though, eh?"  
  
"Yeah. Real close," Peter echoed. His hands balled into fists, crumpling the photo with a little crunch. "But not as close as he's gonna be when I get my hands on him. You'll be hearing about the late Dr. Spengler any time now."  
  
Ray gasped, amusement fleeing before alarm. "You can't hit Dr. Spengler!"  
  
Both Peter and Chuck turned to stare at him. "Why not?" Peter inquired with only mild interest.  
  
"Pete can take that tinhorn any day of the year," Weaver put in, patting Peter's shoulder hardily.  
  
Ray stared from one to the other in dismay. "But ... you just can't hit Egon! It's ... it's not right!" He took two steps forward, raising both hands pleadingly. "He wouldn't do something like that. I mean, he didn't mean to do it. It was probably just a joke, anyway, right?"  
  
The other two waited patiently for the rush to die down. "Which is it?" Weaver asked dryly. "It wasn't him, he didn't mean to do it, or it was all a joke?"  
  
Peter relaxed slowly and unclenched his fists. He raised the now crinkled photo, smoothing it carefully, and stared long and hard at its surface. "Not a bad likeness," he approved, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Kid's right, Chuck, breaking Casper's jaw would be like admitting I couldn't get my revenge more ... subtly. Besides ..." He slid out of Chuck's arm and turned, opening the door wide. "... this just might work to my advantage. Check out this action." He leaned against the frame, crossing one foot over the other, hands in his pockets, while Chuck and Ray watched him closely.  
  
Thirty seconds later Peter had his reward in the form of a tall, statuesque redhead in a tight sweater, who popped through the entranceway. "Hi, Ginger," he greeted the woman, grinning as she hurriedly stuck a now- familiar glossy behind her back. "See you got hold of some of the advertising."  
  
"Advertising?" the woman parroted, lifting her chin.  
  
Peter nodded and proffered his own copy, holding it up until she could see it clearly. "I was especially hoping you'd see it, Ginger. I'd hate for you to have to date me on simple hearsay."  
  
Ginger's eyes opened wide at that, and thoughtful speculation replaced her aborted smirk. "Advertising, huh?" she repeated as though tasting the word. She licked her lips, meeting Peter's knowing gaze frankly. "I always admired men who ... advertised. Never did like buying a ... er ... pig in a poke, you should excuse the expression."  
  
"Couldn't have put it any better myself," Peter purred in return. He took her arm and ushered her back into the hall. "Why don't I explain my campaign to you over coffee." He paused on his way out to shoot the two noticeably impressed young men within a grin. "Tell Egon thanks heaps!" he called back. He waved bye-bye, adding under his breath, "And I'll tell him a few other things - personally."  
  
***  
  
The steady click-click of the typewriter ceased abruptly. It was followed by the sound of tearing paper and Peter's explosive, "Rabshakeh's curse!"  
  
Ray looked up curiously at the obscure expletive, lips curling with amusement. "Whose curse?" he asked as Peter continued shredding the hapless notepaper into strips.  
  
Peter flung the scraps at the nearby wastebasket, managing to miss its edge by several feet. "Lousy, stinking, good-for-nothing bureaucracy," he snarled, pulling out a new sheet of paper and slamming it into the roller. "You'd think McKenna could survive without paper back-up on every single experiment. When I get off'a this college merry-go-round the one thing I will never do is take another note, so help me Jimmy the Greek."  
  
"Notes aren't so bad," Ray protested, lifting the sheaf he was studying. "How would anyone be able to follow your procedures if you didn't take notes?"  
  
"Why would I care?" Peter retorted, scowling ferociously. "Let 'em follow their own blasted procedures."  
  
Ray ducked his head and began to studiously roll up his sleeves over his forearms in a style he favored. Peter uttered another curse, less exotic than the first, and Ray peeked up at him, murmuring just loud enough for Peter to hear, "At last! A cuss word I recognized!"  
  
Peter glanced at him, startled. "A joke?" he exclaimed, clasping his hands to his heart. "Did I hear you make a funny?"  
  
Ray grinned back, brown eyes twinkling merrily in acknowledgement. It was mid-January - three months since Stantz had started working at the lab - and this was one of the first stabs at humor he'd made yet. "Not me. I wouldn't dare in this company."  
  
"See that you don't, Mr. Stantz." But Peter couldn't maintain even a mock severity against the other's bright cheer, and a chuckle escaped despite the line of annoyance that bisected his brows. "However, that doesn't change the fact that I am royally p.o.'d over this paperwork. It's not like I don't have better things to do than type up Zeke Jurgenevski's boring chili dreams. Listen to this...." He shuffled through his notes until locating a piece of yellow, lined paper covered with an illegible scrawl easily recognized as Peter's own.  
  
"... was on stage when suddenly I realized I wasn't wearing a stitch of clothes. I broke into a softshoe while the music was playing Moonlight Over Miami." He vented a disgusted breath and tossed the page back to join its brethren on the desk. "How mundane can you get? Everyone's had that dream sometime or another."  
  
"I haven't," Ray said, frowning. "Does that mean there's something wrong with me?"  
  
Peter ran his fingers through his dark hair, fluffing the thick strands back from his face, his head turned in Ray's direction. "It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you," he returned, studying the boy clinically. "Actually, it doesn't mean anything at all since there's no way to standardize symbolism - the images are different for each person. All we can do is try to draw an across the board approximation and fill in whatever gaps we can."  
  
Ray cocked an inquiring brow, eyes alight with interest. "What about all those self-help books they sell? A lot of those are on dreams and what they mean."  
  
"You've been browsing the self-help books?" Peter asked teasingly. "Intelligent kid like you?"  
  
Ray shrugged, an embarrassed little twitch of the shoulder. "I like to read everything I can. I've got some of those books, lots on the paranormal - I even bought Asimov's latest novel though I haven't had time to read it yet."  
  
Peter left off fixing his hair to tug at the heavy wool sweater he wore over his shirt. It's pristine whiteness was marred only by a small ink stain on one sleeve; Peter grimaced and dabbed at it with a tissue. "Never did like science fiction," he said, wetting the tissue with his tongue. "Give me a good old-fashioned western any day of the week. Ever read Louis LeMort?" Ray made noises to the effect that he had not. "Best writer this side of the Pecos, pard'ner."  
  
Ray stacked the notes he'd been reading to the side of his table and reached for a conglomeration of circuits that had been sitting on one corner. "He can't touch Asimov," he returned boldly. "I'll bet Louis LeMort couldn't turn out something like The Foundation Trilogy or I Robot."  
  
"Bet Asimov couldn't turn out anything like High Plains Round-up or How Dead is My Valley," Peter retorted good-naturedly.  
  
"I'll bet he couldn't."  
  
The agreement was so smooth that for a moment Peter missed the wry inflection in the soft voice. He caught it, did a double take and placed both hands on his hips. "You're getting pretty snippy for an undergrad," he pointed out. "Maybe you'd better get back to your.... What are you doing, anyway?"  
  
Ray held up a printed circuit, turning it until Peter could see it clearly. "This is a Bendex transducer. I finished it last night following Egon's schematic - his notes," he added impishly. "After it's hooked into the EDG...."  
  
"EDG?" Peter asked curiously.  
  
Ray pointed to an entirely separate conglomeration on a stand across the room. "Extra-Dimensional Gauge," he explained with real pride. "Egon says that when it's done it will let us detect anamolies in the space-time continuum - you know, like ghosts would make."  
  
"Ghosts." Peter snorted inelegantly at the suggestion. "You don't really believe that crap, do you? I mean, ESP is a possibility - we've never been able to adequately explore the ranges of the human mind. That's why I started studying psychology, you know. But ghosts?!"  
  
"But it is a possibility, Peter." Ray grew, if possible, even more sincere than he usually was, warming to his subject with all the vim of a politician warming to a promise. "Egon says...."  
  
"Egon," Peter interrupted without apology, "is a loon." He leaned back in his chair, pulled out one of his lower desk drawers and propped his feet on its rim. "Listen, kid, you're wasting your time with that ghost nonsense. If you're interested in exploring the so-called supernatural, the vagaries of humanity are the way to do it. At least you have a shot at getting some proof on that."  
  
"We'll get proof that ghosts exist," Ray returned stubbornly, his rounded jaw sticking out. "Just as soon as Egon's EDG is done." He brightened again, unable to sustain an annoyed snit for long. "Egon is going to test the transducer as soon as he gets in from class!"  
  
"Hoo ... rah." Peter rolled his eyes. "Excuse me if I'm not too impressed, but according to the rumor mill, this is Casper's third or fourth try at one of these things. The only thing the first batch accomplished was shorting out the wiring across campus. Bet M.I.T. really appreciated that."  
  
"Egon says this'll work," Ray muttered, eyes glittering. He paused. "By the way, who was Rabshakeh?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "Either some old Jewish king or some guy who fought some old Jewish king. No idea which."  
  
"Oh." Ray stared at the older man briefly through his lashes. "Are you Jewish?" he asked less boldly than before.  
  
Peter, in the process of reaching for the steaming cup of coffee sitting at his elbow, spared him a glance. "Jewish?" he repeated blankly. "My dad is ... sort of. Why do you ask?"  
  
Ray turned the circuit he was cradling over in his hands, deliberately examining its underside rather than meeting Peter's gaze. "I just thought ... I know you didn't do much for Christmas ... and Rabshakeh is a Jewish term, and...."  
  
Peter's face clouded at the mention of Christmas and for a moment his lips parted, the unspoken rebuff evident in his eyes. He blanked his face with an obvious effort and replied mildly enough, "Oh, yeah, I guess it is. Picked the phrase up from my dad, he's Jewish by birth, anyway. Don't think either one of us have ever seen the inside of a synagogue - at least I know I haven't. He caught it for marrying my mom, I can tell you that much!"  
  
"Your mother isn't Jewish?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "Irish as they come." He struck a pose, nose in the air. "Do I look Jewish to you, Stantz-baby?"  
  
Ray laughed at that. "I guess not." He froze in a listening attitude, watching the door. "That sounds like Egon coming. Maybe ... maybe he'll want to test the transducer right now!"  
  
"Then my life will be complete," Peter muttered, glowering at his notes.  
  
True enough, within seconds the door opened to admit Egon Spengler, a stack of books in his arms and a newspaper wedged under his arm. He closed the door with a well-placed kick of one loafer, returning Ray's greeting with a nod. "Is it my imagination," he asked, stacking the books on his desk, "or do students become more dense as the term progresses?"  
  
"I'm taking that as a rhetorical question," Peter returned, placing his fingers back on the typewriter keys and scowling at the blank sheet. "We've got a bunch of dudes for students this year; wouldn't trust my Freuds with any of 'em. By the way," he added, snickering over his shoulder, "love the shirt. New macho look for you, isn't it?"  
  
Egon, who was in the process of opening the topmost book in his stack, paused to finger the light pink material with a puzzled frown. "That was the most extraordinary thing," he said wonderingly, "I was absolutely certain that I had sorted my laundry correctly. How I could have possibly missed seeing a bright red sock among the shirts is a mystery. It stained every light object I own the same color."  
  
Tongue stuck firmly in cheek, Peter turned away from his typewriter, examining the tall blond critically. "You don't look poor to me. Can't imagine why you haven't sprung for a couple of new shirts, at least. But ..." He interrupted Spengler's reply by waving a conspicuously limp wrist, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "... I like that one - I really do. It brings out your eyes, thweetie."  
  
Egon ducked his head sheepishly. "That's precisely what Marion Gainscott said when I got to the meeting Saturday. And Bernadette said the same thing yesterday. As a matter of fact, I've gotten several compliments on the color already." He absently smoothed an invisible crease in one sleeve. "I've enhanced my wardrobe with several new styles in this shade. Besides ..." Red rose in a tide, staining his angled cheekbones scarlet. "... Frieda loves the color on me. She said that pink made me look...."  
  
The last word was said in so quiet a voice that Peter automatically leaned closer. "Look what?"  
  
Spengler cleared his throat. "Look ... uh ... virile." His flush deepened at the disparaging laugh this drew from Peter, and even Ray was forced to cover his mouth against to muffled a chuckle. "I didn't say it," he defended himself angrily. "Frieda did."  
  
Peter held up his hands in a semi-conciliatory gesture though he never lost the smirk that fanned the embarressed flames in Egon's crystal eyes. "Far be it from us to doubt Frieda's ofttimes dubious tastes." He cocked his head, examining the blond with something akin to respect. "I still can't believe you and Frieda moved in together already. After one date?"  
  
"It was a very good date," Egon returned imperturbably, adjusting the suspenders he'd donned that morning instead of a belt.  
  
Peter shook his head. "To last for three days, I guess it was."  
  
Ray had spent the last several seconds hopping from foot to foot, his hands clasping and unclasping as he waited for a break in the conversation. Finally he could stand it no more. He took a deep breath and tapped Egon on the arm with one finger, stepping back immediately as though afraid Egon would swat at him. There was no fear in his face, however, only a bright enthusiasm that could not be suppressed. "Egon?"  
  
"Yes, Raymond," Spengler replied, fixing him with a knowing look. "Would you like to run some tests on the Bendex transducer before you have to leave for class?"  
  
Ray nodded eagerly, practically skipping from the cardtable where he retrieved the circuit he'd showed Peter earlier, to the stand in the corner and the mass of unidentified components there. Soon, two heads were bent over the stand, one golden blond, the other reddish-brown, as they rapidly wired the transducer into one section of the developing EDG. Peter, as uninterested in the device as he was in the Gross National Product of Poland, returned to his typing, occasionally punctuating the tap of the keys with varied oaths.  
  
It wasn't long before Spengler and Stantz straightened from their work and stood regarding their creation with mirrored hope. "That should do it," Egon said, pushing his slipping metal spectacles higher on his nose. "The transducer is hooked into the main pulse-loop. We're ready to go."  
  
"Wow!" Ray breathed. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, staring at Egon for all the world like a puppy waiting for a bone. "Just think! You'll be able to prove dimensional overlaps really exist! Maybe even visit them or use them for power taps! This is great!"  
  
Peter, attracted by the minor commotion, ceased his irregular typing to shoot the duo a skeptical look. "You really think that gizmo is going to prove the existence of ghosts? C'mon, guys, even Sam Cage wouldn't swallow that one."  
  
"What the EDG is intended to do," Egon returned in a reproving voice, "is to react to ..."  
  
"... anomalies in the time-space continuum," Peter finished sing-song. "Yeah, Ray told me that part. My question is, how?"  
  
Egon clasped his hands behind his back, adapting a lecturer's stance. Peter groaned. "With the transducer wired into place, the device should act to transform sub-etheric particles of the kind theoretically generated by extra-dimensional influx, into detectible radiation bands."  
  
"Theoretically," Peter repeated, skepticism becoming outright suspicion. "How're you gonna test that sucker?"  
  
Egon stepped out of the way as Ray rolled over a bulky oscilloscope. "The test is an extremely simple one. The transducer is wired into the main scoop - what there is of the main scoop at present - and is programmed to transmute the sub-etheric particles gathered directly into electromagnetic waves, thus producing a steady sine on the scope."  
  
"Theoretically," Peter pointed out again. "Look, Casper, I heard what happened at M.I.T. the last time you decided to test one of these things...."  
  
"An unfortunate miscalculation," Egon interrupted huffily. "However, it did set my research on the proper course. This is a far more refined theory I'm working from."  
  
"Uh-huh. Right." Peter nodded resignedly and stuffed his papers into a drawer. "To prevent water damage in case of a fire," he explained to Ray, earning himself a nasty glare from Egon.  
  
With a dramatic flair rarely seen in the laid-back physicist, Egon flexed his fingers then rested his thumb on a little black switch labelled Power. "Ready?" he asked, smiling at Ray's impatient grunt. "Then let's ... begin." At that he pressed the button, causing a low hum to fill the air, originating from the miniature transformer supplying the device with power. The two stepped closer to the oscilloscope, Egon supporting himself on Ray's shoulder. Even Peter craned his neck, caught despite himself in the aura of expectation which filled the room. Three chests drew in a breath....  
  
"There's no sinewave at all," Ray said, giving the oscilloscope a sharp thump. "Maybe it's broken."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with the scope," Egon remarked disappointedly. "I fear it's my transducer that isn't working."  
  
"Told you so," Peter shot nastily, settling back in his seat.  
  
Ray jiggled several wires, then switched the power on and off twice before letting his hand fall to his side. "I don't know what I did wrong," he said in a devastated tone. "I thought ... I mean, I was so sure...." He lifted large doleful eyes to Egon's, then ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mess it up."  
  
Egon waved the apology impatiently away. "I checked the circuits you were working on before you came in. They matched perfectly the specifications I outlined." He stopped, blowing out his cheeks in a frustrated puff. "I was so sure...."  
  
Ray scuffed the toe of his low boot on the wooden floor, his whole posture bespeaking misery. "There couldn't have been anything wrong with your theory," he protested quietly. "It was my fault. I must have done something wrong. I'm really sorry."  
  
A thin streak of smoke began to rise from the transducer, and Spengler hurriedly shut it off. "It wasn't your fault, Ray. I wasn't entirely certain about that design from the beginning but the theory was so sound I couldn't dismiss it without some empirical observation. I'll simply notify my correspondents of the failure and start over from scratch."  
  
"Is this the fourth time?" Peter inquired sweetly, "or the fifth? Man tends to lose count after so much positive evidence for the paranatural."  
  
"You," Egon remarked mildly, throwing himself into his chair, "are scum, and I shall proceed to ignore you for the rest of the afternoon."  
  
"Are you sure I didn't...?" Ray began, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  
  
"Quite certain." Trusting that forceful negative to close the subject, Spengler rested his chin in his palm, his high forehead wrinkled in thought. "I'll have to recompute every equation from the beginning to be sure it wasn't some minor miscalculation that defeated the transducer," he muttered more to himself than to the others. "That could take weeks."  
  
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Ray asked, more dispirited than even Spengler over the failure.  
  
"How about retuning his brain?" Peter suggested, retrieving his notes from the drawer. "No way he's firing on all phasers." He shot Ray a grin over his shoulder. "Okay, so Star Trek I watch. Sue me."  
  
True to his word, Egon reacted not at all to the psychologist's jibe. "I must admit to being disappointed. I'd hoped to try the finished EDG on that publicized haunting in the newspapers."  
  
Ray perked up marginally at that. "What haunting? Someone's actually seen a ghost?"  
  
Egon tossed the newspaper, flipping it end over end to land neatly in Ray's hands. "Page 27 refers to a horror novel reportedly based on a true case. It's called The Amityville Horror. Ever hear of it?"  
  
Peter, busily sorting his notes into some sort of usable order, groaned aloud at that. "That house out on Long Island? My dad was talking about it last time he was in. Seems the owner was in over his head money-wise until the dough from the book and movie rights started coming through. Pretty suspicious that they decide the house is haunted as soon as his business started going belly up, isn't it?"  
  
The paper rustled loudly as Ray flipped to the correct page. He scanned the article quickly, his lips moving over the occasional word as though savoring the way it tasted. Finally, he looked up, his bright eyes beginning to glow. "Wow! This says there'll be a movie out on it soon, telling all the adventures of the family!" He paused to fold the newspaper neatly, then crossed to Egon's desk to hand it back to the older man. This accomplished, he stood his position, his hands clasped tightly together behind his back. "Egon, do you ... maybe, do you think I could ... you know, take a little time off this afternoon?"  
  
"Thinking of taking a trip out to Amityville?" Egon asked with evident amusement. "A little empirical research?" Ray nodded happily, causing Egon to smile back. "I have no objection. How were you planning to get there?"  
  
Ray pointed to the newspaper, still-open on Egon's desk. "This says that Amityville is out on Long Island. If I can get the LIRR...."  
  
"You'd end up walking for miles," Peter remarked without turning around. "Unless you want to hitchhike." He turned his head, offering Ray a devilish grin. "How 'bout it, Stantz? Stick out the old thumb, show 'em a little leg, that sort of thing. Maybe you'll luck out with some blonde in a 'Vette. That happened to me once," he added as an aside to Egon, who was still ignoring him.  
  
Egon glanced at his watch, biting his lip thoughtfully. Then he nodded and stood. "Perhaps I'll take my car and accompany you. I'd rather like to ask the present occupants - if there are any - a few questions. If not, perhaps we can locate the realtor and get permission to go inside."  
  
"Wow!" Ray repeated, face alive with excitement. "That'd be great! You'll come too, won't you, Peter?"  
  
By way of reply, Venkman rolled his eyes, his fine-drawn lips twisted in a comical display of disbelief. "That was a joke, right? You were making a funny?"  
  
Ray smiled back, his shoulder lifting in that tiny embarrassed shrug that was so much a part of his personality. "I guess I was," he laughed. He leaned forward, resting his weight on the edge of Peter's desk and fixing the older man with a bright-eyed look. "But it really will be neat, Peter. Just think of it! On the trail of who-knows-what!"  
  
Peter sighed loudly though amusement shone in the green gaze. "Kid, I can only put this one way: it'll be a cold, cold day you-know-where before you're ever gonna get you-know-who out chasing who-knows-whats."  
  
"So let it be written, so let it be procrastinated until Doomsday," Egon remarked dryly, donning his heavy overcoat. "Peter C. Venkman has spoken." He fastened one of the large wooden buttons while gazing sorrowfully at the ruined EDG. "Blast the transducer. I knew it was going to be trouble from the start."  
  
Ray, in the process of buckling his trench coat around his waist, paused, a wary look entering his gold-brown eyes. "You aren't mad about it, are you? I can redo it tonight it you want."  
  
"Don't be nonsensical, Raymond, the fault was entirely with the design." Spengler finished fastening his buttons, then rooted in his pockets for his gloves. "We'd better be off or it'll be dark before we get there. We'll probably hit heavy traffic as it is."  
  
"A haunted house after dark!" Ray thrilled. "Wow!"  
  
"It could be quite exciting at that," Egon agreed, rubbing his hands together in unfeigned glee.  
  
Peter threw back his head, addressing the white ceiling high overhead. "Don't forget to buy the kid some ice cream when you're through playing monster movie," he called to the departing duo.  
  
"I hardly think Ray is going to want ice cream while engaged on a scientific endeavor," Egon reproved.  
  
Peter hunched his shoulders and resumed his typing. "I was talking to him."  
  
That did it. Egon urged Stantz to the door with a hand placed firmly in the middle of his back. "Let's go, Ray. We'll leave the comedy department behind to laugh at his own jokes."  
  
Though he didn't slam the door, it did shut with a decided little click. Peter listened to the two voices raised in excited conversation, the heavy bass as enthusiastic as the soft tenor. They disappeared down the hall, leaving Peter to shake his head scornfully. "Yeah, right. Cold day before you'd get me chasing ghosts with those two loonies." He chuckled and stretched a long arm across the desk to snag the topmost book in Egon's stack; it bore the title Precognition and History. "Cold day," he repeated, settling down to read.  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter 6

It was unusually quiet for a Monday morning. Egon lifted his head from the spare power cord he was examining, twisting until he could peer out the small window next to the cubicle. Gray clouds filled most of the view, tiny droplets smearing the pane with a soft patter. He craned his neck, getting a glimpse of the ribbon of cement that connected the main buildings. Pedestrian traffic was at an all-time low, possibly due to the steady drizzle that had begun the previous eve. The weatherman had predicted rain all day, though at present the rest of the week looked to be clear and warm and typically spring. Egon hoped so - Frieda was demanding a trip to the shore Sunday, and Egon preferred to oblige her. Things had started to grow strained between them of late, and after sharing his apartment with her for two relatively blissful months, he was not eager to sever the relationship that quickly.  
  
A contented smile curling his full lips, he left off his dreamy contemplation of the damp window to survey the only other human being in the room. Disdaining the lilliputian table and chair he'd been provided, Ray Stantz sat crosslegged on the hardwood floor, tools and parts neatly arranged on some newspaper. He was applying a powerful magnifying glass to a printed circuit, examining each connection individually and with great care.  
  
Ray had proved to be an even better choice than hoped, Egon reflected, watching the boy work. Careful and precise, and so filled with the joy of learning that Egon himself was finding new pleasures in the pursuit of discovery, and of sharing that pleasure with the boy. My classes are even more interesting, Spengler told himself wryly, possessing no illusions about his less-than-scintillating abilities in that area.  
  
Intelligence, imagination ... all in all, Stantz had the makings of a fine scientist. The only flaw Egon had been able to find in him was that extreme reaction to even the smallest failing - whether or not it was Ray's fault. Egon wondered not for the first time what series of events had combined to so ravage the confidence of someone who - Egon could admit without false egotism - was increasingly revealing an intellect that might one day rival Egon's own. But the one thing Ray resolutely would not talk about was his background, questions eliciting no more than an embarrassed dissemble as reply. Egon was certain the answer to Ray's damaged ego lay in that veiled past, though sheer politeness dictated that the subject not be pushed even to satisfy a nagging curiosity.  
  
The auburn head bent lower, spilling a lock of hair forward over the smooth brow. Ray absently brushed it back then picked up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the paper plate next to him and took a bite. It was only then with its cessation that Egon became aware of the low murmur that had played as a background for the full hour he'd been here. He cocked his head but could remember little of Stantz' speech save the occasional self- query or comment. Where Ray had picked up the habit of talking to himself while he worked Egon was never to know, but it was a mildly annoying tendency that had nearly driven Peter to violence on more than one occasion. Egon himself, of course, was able to tune out any distractions when he was concentrating; Peter on the other hand was perennially aware of his surroundings and had twice threatened to break Ray in two if he didn't shut up.  
  
The threat had worked partially - Ray's monologue had dropped in volume from conversational quality to a low mutter, something both could at least live with. Egon was glad the situation had worked out; he was growing quite fond of his young lab assistant and would have hated for the abrasive psychologist to have forced him out of the job. Further contemplation added an amendment to that thought: to give Venkman the credit due him, Egon had never once heard him actually harsh with Ray. Egon had even noticed that Peter tended to restrain the heavy sarcasm that was so much a part of his speech when addressing the boy, revealing at least an iota of sensitivity. Spengler raised a brow at the thought. Venkman with a soft side? An interesting, if unlikely, possibility, and one Egon filed away for further study.  
  
Speaking of whom.... Egon glanced at the Rolex watch that had been a graduation present from his father; eleven o'clock. Where was Venkman? Not that Egon particularly cared, he told himself, but the man had so far proved himself to be at least moderately regular in his work habits, especially this late in the semester. Preparations were underway all over campus for final exams, which were approaching rapidly, and there was a stack of reports on Peter's desk needing his immediate attention should he desire further grants next semester. Where could the man be?  
  
As if in answer, a low shuffle tickled the edge of Egon's hearing, and he lifted his head to stare at the entrance. The building without was noiseless save for a single pair of feet trudging up the hall, weighted as though the entire world rode upon the traveler's shoulders. A moment later the frosted-glass door slammed open causing Ray to start, squeezing jelly out of his sandwich and over his fingers.  
  
Peter Venkman entered the room looking less than his normally robust self. Dark circles underscored his eyes, contrasting with his pale skin to give him a feverish appearance. His white sweater was clean but his slacks looked as though they'd been slept in - not an unusual occurrence for Venkman, Egon sniffed disapprovingly.  
  
Without a word Peter shrugged out of his coat and collapsed into his chair, ignoring Ray's greeting by dropping his head forward to rest on his folded arms. Ray put down his sandwich and scrambled to his feet.  
  
"Peter?" the assistant asked, hurriedly approaching the semi-recumbent form. "You look terrible! Are you all right?" He rested his unsticky left hand on the other's head, a frown creasing his smooth features. "You don't have a fever. Have you been ill? Can I help?"  
  
The reply to this was a low, anguished groan and an irritated swat. "Go away, Ray," Peter growled harshly. "Don't you know enough to leave the dead in peace?"  
  
"Another party?" Egon asked, one brow arching into his hairline.  
  
The nod was barely perceptible, consisting of little more than a wobble of the thick brown hair. "Blow out. Tri Cuppa. Just got in."  
  
Ray, still hovering by the desk, accepted this piece of information with due astonishment. "You partied until eleven o'clock?" he bubbled. "Wow! I've never been to a party lasting into the morning! What did you find to do for so long?"  
  
Peter waved a negligent hand though not deigning to raise his head. "Usual stuff, kid. You start with a drink...."  
  
"And graduate into drugs and debauchery," Egon finished, unaccountably annoyed that Ray would be impressed by this example of immaturity. He snuck a glance at the boy, mildly disappointed when Ray's admiration hadn't wavered. "Not precisely professional, Venkman." He thrust the power cord into Ray's right hand then grimaced when some of the jelly came off onto his own. "Ray, why don't you go get Peter a cup of coffee from Professor Cage's lab. And there's aspirin in the first aid kit in the hall."  
  
Ray carelessly dropped the cord into a box by the window and headed for the door. Egon waited until he had disappeared before adding, "You know, Peter, if you insist on carousing, you might at least practice a modicum of self-control. I see no reason to go as far as you do in the simple pursuit of a good time."  
  
Peter grumbled something obscene and turned his head until he could regard the blond with one eye. "Listen to the party animal over there," he gibed nastily. "Like you could cruise one of these parties and walk a straight line afterward. It just don't compute that way, booby - not if it's going to be worth your while to go at all."  
  
Egon snorted. "For some people perhaps," he returned condescendingly, "but the mature man can find pleasure without surrendering his dignity."  
  
That brought Peter's head all the way up. "His dignity?!" he echoed disbelievingly. "You're putting me on, right?"  
  
Egon straightened his neat pink shirt, his innate sophistication providing a feeling of superiority over Peter's dishevelment. "Not at all, Mr. Venkman. I contend that it's quite possible to attend one or any of your galas without ending up in the ... er ... condition that you are in now."  
  
Resentment stained Peter's pale face rose. "Oh, you contend, do you, Doctor Smart-ass? You're telling me that you could do one of my gigs, enjoy it and still come out on top the next morning? Is that what you're telling me?"  
  
Egon nodded virtuously. "That is exactly what I'm alleging, and I think you would do well to consider the possibility for the next time you decide to play juvenile delinquent."  
  
Peter thought this over for a long moment, unconsciously massaging his temples with his thumbs. Finally, he cocked his head in Egon's direction. "You're blowing smoke," he said succinctly. "I think that if you were to dig one of the do's, you'd either end up as potted as everyone else or spend the night sitting in a corner twiddling your thumbs. No middle ground."  
  
"There's always middle ground," Egon bristled.  
  
"Oh, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Okay." Peter smiled, a meager twist of one side of his mouth. "There's another big blowout Friday. Susan Newman - you know her, don't you? Redhead with the gazongas? She's throwing a Mardi Gras party that should be a real blast. You want 'ta prove what you're saying? Go to the party."  
  
Egon opened his mouth then shut it again, dismayed by the impish glitter in the other's green eyes. Sensing danger, his first inclination was to refuse out of hand. "Ray and I have an early meeting with Professor McKenna...." he began doubtfully.  
  
"I'm certain you'll be able to handle both," Peter returned sweetly.  
  
"Well...." Peter's smile took on a smug quality and Egon knew himself to be trapped. Put up or shut up, he told himself with some element of disgust. He sighed. "Oh, very well, if you think that's necessary...."  
  
"Oh, very necessary." Peter again dropped his head. "Wake me before then." It wasn't long before soft snores heralded his sleeping state, leaving Egon to stare at the top of Peter's head and contemplate Frieda's reaction to being back on the party circuit.  
  
Neither of them noticed the return of the little gray mouse that had so terrified the female student. Attracted by the smell of food, it snuck around the perimeter of the room and climbed into the box by the window, where Ray had deposited the jelly-smeared power cord only minutes before. With a happy little squeak it began to feed.  
  
***  
  
Friday was unseasonably warm, the mercury climbing into the eighties by midday. Egon taught two classes in the morning, spent four hours with Ray in the lab, then returned to his furnished apartment to shower, shave and prepare for Susan Newman's party that evening. If truth were to out, he was somewhat nervous at the prospect of attending a party hosted by anyone associated with Peter Venkman. No stranger to campus nightlife, Egon nonetheless tended to avoid the drug and alcohol crazed stratum of the populace, preferring the formal balls at the country club his parents had insisted he join, or the elegant galas they gave in their Long Island home. He liked to think he'd outgrown the "Get high and have sex" parties that had formed a part, albeit a small one, of his undergrad days.  
  
Frieda was already dressed by the time Egon got out of the shower, her lush curves enhanced dramatically by the figure hugging, blue spandex pants and halter top she'd donned. She waited on the leather couch, shimmering in the lamplight and looking quite lovely. She rose when she saw him, twirling lightly on her toes under his appreciative gaze.  
  
"Like it?" she asked unnecessarily. "I went to Macy's this morning with Marcia. I wanted to look perfect for you tonight."  
  
Egon was across the plush green carpet in three strides to slip his arms around the woman's slim waist. "You always look perfect," he assured her, his heavy bass muffled. "And to think that I have Peter Venkman to thank for all this."  
  
Frieda giggled, snuggling closer. "I'm glad Pete's going to the party. It'll be nice to see him again. It's been awhile and he and I used to be ... close."  
  
"Forget Venkman," Egon suggested, burying his face in the thick chestnut hair that hung free on her shoulders. "Are you certain you actually want to go out this evening? We can always make some excuse...."  
  
Frieda stiffened, pulling back out of his grip. "We always make some excuse," she accused, poking Egon in the chest with a long red nail. "Well, let me tell you something, Egon Spengler, we are not making 'some excuse' tonight! I've sat around here long enough and I want to party!"  
  
Spengler stared, obviously surprised by her mercurial change of mood. "I thought you enjoyed staying at home!" He scowled, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "Does this have anything to do with seeing Venkman again? I thought everything was over between you two."  
  
"Pete Venkman has nothing to do with this," the woman returned shortly, teetering off on her spiked heels. "Maybe I'm just tired of being an apartment trophy." She snagged a jacket from a hook. "I'll meet you there."  
  
"Frieda...!"  
  
But the door slammed and she was gone leaving Egon alone in a spartan, tasteful and very silent room.  
  
***  
  
Egon arrived at the sorority house soon after. It was a handsome building, roomy inside, ivy kissed without, and fragrant with the smell of spring herbs planted in the tiny garden to the rear. Egon paused by the front door to inhale the scent; aromatic smoke wafted toward him in the draft created by the open door and Egon drew in an involuntary lungful causing him to sneeze violently. Definitely not tobacco, he thought, feeling in his pocket for a handkerchief. And am I surprised?  
  
He used the cloth to wave away the annoying mist and entered without knocking, pausing just inside the doorway to examine the scene. Blue eyes grew dark with the strain of adjusting to the maddening cacophony of light within - red lamps provided the primary illumination, the ruby periodically shattered by the intense flash of several strobes deposited at strategic points around the perimeter and reflected as a prism by the silvery ball suspended from the ceiling.  
  
The party was already in full swing; twenty or so colorfully clad people crowded into a moderate sized den, the ratio between male and female roughly even. A leather couch and loveseat had been pushed back against the wall and a few couples were taking advantage of the extra space to gyrate to a Rolling Stones album. The rest hung in clusters like grapes, talking loudly to be heard over the music, while a miscellaneous few lounged prone in various attitudes of early intoxication.  
  
Egon took this all in, in a single sweep, his gaze settling on the chestnut headed woman, who stood back to the door encased in the arm of an annoyingly familiar figure. Egon was across the room in a half dozen strides, having to step over several of the reposing bodies en route. "Hello, Frieda," he greeted, speaking loudly to be heard over the blare of the stereo. "Peter."  
  
Peter Venkman smiled broadly, leaning closer so he wouldn't have to raise his voice, the action forcing open his expensive silk shirt nearly to the waist. "Yo, Spengs! Didn't think you were really gonna make it, booby! Frieda and I were just ... discussing the situation."  
  
"I can see that," Egon returned dryly, removing Venkman's arm from around the woman. "However, I doubt hands-on demonstrations were necessary."  
  
Frieda snuggled her body against Egon's in a coquettish gesture. "I think he's jealous," she giggled, running her fingers up and down Egon's arm. "Isn't that cute?"  
  
Egon escaped her grasp by the simple expedient of taking one step backward. "Extremely entertaining. What is it you're on? Pot? Hash?"  
  
Frieda threw back a strand of hair, her amusement fading. "Maybe this is just me having fun. Ever think of that?"  
  
Frankly, he hadn't. Spengler stared at her thoughtfully, shifting his gaze when Peter clapped him companionably on the shoulder. "Come on and meet some of the crew," he offered, steering the two in the direction of the bedroom. A knot of people were gathered in the doorway; they parted and Egon could see the target of their interest - a glowing television set.  
  
"What are they watching?" Egon asked just as a roar of applause signalled the end of the show.  
  
Before he could get an answer two people split off from the group in the doorway. "Yo, Pete!" Chuck Weaver yelled, shoving his way past two women garbed entirely in tin foil. "You just missed the end of The Dukes of Hazzard! Man, them good old boys are sure a hoot! We never once missed 'em in Waco."  
  
Peter slapped the muscular blond on the back, giving the petite brunette at his side a more gentle pat. "This is Chuck's chick, Rhoda. I think you both already know Chuck."  
  
"Oh, I remember Chucky real well," Frieda purred with more than a hint of suggestion coloring her throaty contralto. "Hi, Chucky."  
  
Chuck smiled, his ruddy skin flushing to the roots of his long blond hair. "Lo, babe. Didn't expect to see you here, Casper."  
  
Egon sighed at the unloved appellation. "Egon," he murmured without much hope. "If you'll excuse...."  
  
Peter aborted Egon's attempted escape by slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Egon is here to prove a point."  
  
"What point is that?" Rhoda asked with friendly interest.  
  
Egon tried to wiggle free of Peter's grip; the psychologist snarled his fingers in the taller man's collar and held on. "He's here to prove that a body can do one of these do's without getting blasted to the gills." He paused, striking a dramatic pose. "And still have fun!"  
  
There was a chorus of ooohs and ahhhs, intermingled with some good-natured jibes. Egon felt the blood rise in his neck, the situation not helping when Weaver leaned forward to poke him in the ribs. "Well, gosh, almighty! And landsakes, too! D'ya really think we can?"  
  
Instinctively rising to the bait, Egon pulled free of Peter's hold and straightened his linen shirt across his thin chest. "Whether or not you can is arguable," he retorted. "However, I'm certain any intellect higher than a protozoan will be able to accomplish the feat."  
  
Chuck smiled seraphically and Egon winced when he noticed how closely that expression mirrored Venkman's. "Ah see. C'mon, Rhoda, you an' me got us some party'in ta do."  
  
The brunette waggled her fingers in farewell and followed the big man through the crowd, the pair disappearing into the still swelling sea of bodies cramming the den.  
  
Frieda chewed her lip as she watched them depart, then spun on Egon, her expression tight with anger. "Well, you're in fine form tonight," she snapped, eyes blazing under her false eyelashes. "Picked up that holier- than-thou attitude on an empty stomach, too, didn't you?"  
  
"Never mind Weaver. He had it coming." Egon took her arm, leading her past the still smiling Peter Venkman. Peter, not one to be ignored, skipped two steps to the side, placing himself directly in their path.  
  
"Hey, relax, big guy!" he admonished, spreading his hands to prevent their passing. "Why don't you have a drink? Or something to eat. C'mon." He herded Egon - who clamped Frieda's wrist possessively only seconds before Peter could take it himself - to a laden table set against the opposite wall. "Look here, scotch, vodka, bourbon.... The blender is full of Red Devils and the food is over here. How about some white wine, Frieda?"  
  
The woman accepted the offered glass, smiling her thanks. "At least someone around here knows how to have a good time," she said pointedly.  
  
Egon ignored her to examine the banquet suspiciously. "I hesitate to imagine what is in these brownies," he criticized, lifting one and sniffing it like a bloodhound. His long nose crinkled as he recognized the almost imperceptible aroma of illegal greens. "Just as I thought." He stopped, leaning closer to the table. "That's not sugar, is it?"  
  
Peter dipped a finger into the questionable white substance, touching a minuscule amount to the very tip of his tongue. "Yeah, right. Sugar," he sniggered, wiping his hand on his skin-tight black slacks. "You're a real card, Spengs."  
  
"Why not try some of the punch?" Frieda suggested, sipping delicately at her wine. "It's half Kool-Aid, half Zombie."  
  
"I think I'd be safer with the brownies," Egon muttered, staring at the innocuous looking pink fluid with a mild sense of horror.  
  
"Well, try something else for crying out loud," Frieda growled, rapidly losing her patience. "Did you come here to criticize or to have fun?"  
  
Peter coughed loudly; to Egon it sounded like a badly concealed chuckle. Egon stiffened. "Of course I'm here to enjoy myself," he assured her, dropping her wrist. "Beer will serve perfectly, I assure you." He selected a sealed can of Miller and popped the tab. "Where's the ice?"  
  
"Ice is in the ice bucket, natch." A pretty redhead swooped down on the little group like a whirlwind, gypsy scarves flapping in her wake. "Everybody having a good time?"  
  
Peter wrapped both arms around the redhead's waist, pulling her back against him and leaning slightly forward to nip at her ear. "Don't I always?" he asked obviously unnecessarily since the woman laughed.  
  
"No kidding, Pete!" She suffered her ear to be bitten a second time, her attention focusing on Egon, who was watching her with polite interest. "By the way, who are you? Haven't seen you at any of these shindigs before."  
  
"Who he is," Peter returned, coming up for air, "is Dr. Egon Spengler, late of M.I.T. Spengs, baby, this is the author of this little bash, Susan Newman."  
  
Susan offered her hand, pumping Egon's once before releasing it. "Nice to meet you, Spengs, baby." She missed Egon's softly uttered, "Egon," to address the narrow-eyed Frieda LesMartin. "Hi, Frieda, is the blond cutie here with you?"  
  
Frieda slipped a proprietary arm around Egon's arm, and he nearly winced as her long fingernails dug into his skin. "Touch him and I'll pull your hair out by your dark roots."  
  
Rather than anger, the statement produced only a philosophical shrug. "Don't worry, honey, I can get my own without stealing anyone you'd be interested in."  
  
"I'll bet you can," Peter murmured, drooping over her neck. "Me, for instance."  
  
Egon tuned them both out, using the opportunity to get some ice. He filled his glass to the rim then took a sip. "Come on, hon," Frieda urged, tugging lightly at his arm. "There's Dave and Julie. We should go say hello."  
  
Egon nodded, first helping himself to a plate. "I'd like to have something to eat, Frieda; I've been without nourishment since morning." He browsed the foodstuffs slowly, passing by both cakes and casserole with nary a hesitation. "That salad looks harmless," he declared, piling a heap of lettuce on his plate. "Carrots ... celery...."  
  
He lifted a small bowl filled to the rim with a brown-gray substance, studying it critically before his face cleared. "Mushrooms! Excellent." He scowled, resenting the woman's having diced them into unrecognizability, then subjected the near-paste to the same test as he had the brownie. "I don't smell additives," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose it's safe enough." So decided, he finished making up a platter, topping the salad with the vinegar-and-herb dressing from a shaker bottle.  
  
"Will you come on?" Frieda demanded, tapping her foot. "I don't want to stand here all night."  
  
Egon picked up platter, fork and beer, then turned to the waiting woman. "Lead on, my dear."  
  
He finished his meal while the two circulated. The room was packed and they stopped often to chat - smalltalk for the most part, the inane politenesses humans exchange when they're unacquainted with each other and uninterested in learning. Egon had to admit that he was actually starting to enjoy himself despite himself. The lighting was impossible, the music set on explosive force, yet both soon faded into the background of Egon's consciousness until they were barely noticeable at all. His taut muscles grew pliant, mind floating free of the tension that had gripped it since the argument with Frieda earlier. He was even beginning to like that stupid disco ball in the ceiling, he admitted privately. Light from the strobes touched silver and prismed, seemingly to grow ever stronger even as he watched. Yes, lovely indeed. Maybe this party wasn't such a bad idea at all!  
  
Through the cotton swaddling his brain he gradually became aware that he was being spoken to. He left off his contemplation of the lights reluctantly, adjusting his focus to the very dark-skinned man in the long robes, who was presently addressing him. "I beg your pardon?" Egon asked, frowning prodigiously in concentration.  
  
The man broke off mid-sentence, pausing to stroke his long curly beard. It was Frieda who replied. "Eberley was just saying how happy he is to be in America since Ghana is having so many internal problems lately."  
  
"Oh." Egon regrouped rapidly, wondering why he was having so much trouble paying attention. "Yes. America is ... very nice. It's...." He trailed off, eyes drawn irresistibly to the length of gold chain draping the negro's neck. "Your necklace is ... is ... great," he gushed, unable to think of a more appropriate descriptive. "I never noticed how bright it is before." He glanced around feeling a dull surprise at how clearly he could see the entire room through the smoke - the crystalline clarity which honed even curves into razor sharp edges. He brushed past Frieda, closing the distance to the dark man. "As a matter of fact," he whispered, grasping his arm, "everything is incredibly bright this evening, isn't it?"  
  
The other man smiled thinly and disengaged his arm with bland courtesy. "I see you enhance your senses as do these others." He gestured, his wide sleeves making a colorful swirl that Egon found strangely fascinating. "My people, I fear, insist on purity of both body and soul. I respect your right to imbibe, however."  
  
"Imbibe?" Egon blinked stupidly and glanced down at the nearly empty glass in his hand. "I only had one beer."  
  
"Oh. Right. Of course. A beer." White teeth flashing in a conspiratorial grin, Eberley bowed slightly and wandered off, chuckling softly to himself.  
  
Egon frowned. "Wonder what that was all about?"  
  
"Honestly, Egon." Spengler turned, actually retreating a step from the blue glare that nearly pierce him through. "And after all your lectures to me! I never knew you were such a hypocrite."  
  
"Which lectures, Frieda?" Egon asked, gulping the last of his beer and looking around for some place to put the bottle. "Do you see a trash receptacle nearby?"  
  
"No." The single word was clipped and sullen. Frieda yanked her halter a little lower over her navel, consequently exposing several inches more cleavage in the bargain. Egon's glands cheered though he dared not mention the fact at present. "I'm going to go talk to Frankie," the woman concluded coolly. "I'll see you later. Maybe."  
  
On that somewhat unpromising note, she turned and strode off, the bright blue of her outfit soon being swallowed up in the equally bright spectrum of humanity. Egon raised one hand, making a distinctly unsatisfactory attempt at stopping her, then let it drop to his side with a sigh. Some nagging portion of his brain told him that Frieda's 'maybe' meant 'never,' but he couldn't seem to work up any enthusiasm over the fact - or any other fact for that matter.  
  
Egon wandered aimlessly for sometime, some unexpected daring taking him past both Scotch bottle and Kamikaze pitcher several times during the evening, though innate good sense always persuaded his choice of an unopened beer rather than the harder alcohols. He did finally appropriate the little dish of mushrooms, finding their unrecognized tang a pleasant one, though leaving a lingering aftertaste that he was certain would stay with him for hours.  
  
The wall clock was registering three and the party showed no signs of abating. People came and went with annoying irregularity, and the temperature in the den steadily climbed with the crush of human bodies. Finally, shirt soaked through, Egon sought refuge in the kitchen near the back door, cradling an untouched glass of iced beer to his chest and staring glumly at the semi-naked woman who was rummaging in the cupboard. Mousy and exceedingly thin, she continually mumbled to herself as she searched, paying no attention to Egon's conversational gambit in the least, and had she been wearing more clothes Egon might have abandoned the attempt altogether.  
  
He opened his mouth to try again, then closed it without making a sound. Semi-clothed or not, he couldn't summon the effort. Fatigue was draping itself heavily, and to Egon's perception, the lighting had grown steadily less diverting. His head was beginning to pound steadily and he could no longer recall why he'd wanted to come to this party in the first place. He was spending a moment calculating the energy expenditure involved in rising and returning to his own home, when a tall form interposed itself between himself and the nearest strobe, a slurred tenor breaking his concentration.  
  
"Wondered what happened to you," the newcomer remarked, leaning heavily against the kitchen sink. "Heck of a party, eh?"  
  
Egon reluctantly withdrew his gaze from the woman, less than thrilled by the interruption. He removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, then replaced them at a new angle, scowling at the necessity to still squint to see the other with something resembling clarity. The man obligingly bent down; this turned out to be a mistake for he swayed dizzily with the attempt, then his legs gave out, depositing him with a thump at the blond's side. Egon took the opportunity to lean closer. "Oh. It is you, Peter. How long have you been here?"  
  
Peter considered, chewing his thumbnail thoughtfully. "Since eight, I think. Clock says it's after three. That makes it...." He trailed off, brow furrowed in furious concentration. He ticked off several numbers on his fingers, then spread his hands helplessly. "Quite a while. Dynamite party, isn't it?"  
  
Egon scratched his head, running his fingers through the drooping blond curl. "I suppose so but that makes me dizzy." He pointed a quaking finger at the powerful strobe that was flashing regularly from one of the counters. "I mean, it must be the light making me dizzy, don't you think?"  
  
Peter nodded his head furiously, then groaned. "Yeah, right. The light. Anything you say, Spengler, old buddy." He peered curiously at the blond, who was by now peering just as curiously back. Dulled green eyes narrowed. "What did you have to eat, anyway?"  
  
Spengler shrugged. "Salad and beer. With vinaigrette."  
  
Peter nodded wisely. "With the 'special' mushrooms and the 'special' herb dressing? And ... uh ... did that ice come out of the bucket or the refrigerator?"  
  
Egon brandished his glass of beer like a sword, spilling some out onto the tile floor. "The bucket. And the dressing wasn't all that special," he amended honestly. "But at least the mushrooms were fresh."  
  
Peter gaped in what Egon tentatively interpreted as rampant disbelief though what the source of that disbelief could be was well beyond his ken. "Wow!" the psychologist breathed with real respect. "Mushrooms, dotted ice, 'special' dressing and beer? Wow!" He gave Egon a comradely clap on the shoulder. "I have ta' admit that I thought you were gonna be a real wet blanket on this gig, Spengs, but anyone who can down that whole batch and still walk ... well, function, is okay in my book."  
  
Egon scowled, assuming there was an underlying meaning to that little speech that he'd missed but unwilling to give the younger man the advantage by admitting to his ignorance. Instead, he returned his attention to the muttering woman, who had by now removed the rest of her clothes and was wandering toward the screen door.  
  
"That's Diane Kennedy," Peter spoke up, following his gaze. "Long time junkie. She makes all the parties looking for a free fix. Bad news chick."  
  
The door banged shut causing both men to wince. "And why would I be interested in her," Egon asked rhetorically, "when I've got Frieda waiting for me in the other room?"  
  
Peter opened his mouth, paused, then swallowed. "Didn't she go home with Frankie a couple hours ago?" he asked with feigned innocence.  
  
Egon snorted and reached again for the dish of mushrooms. "Interesting party," he began, forcibly changing the subject before the other man could warm to it. "Back when I first started college, my mother would call me every other night to make sure I wasn't attending soirees like this one. I think she used to watch too much Laugh In on television."  
  
Peter laughed. "Mine, too. She still calls me sometimes - says it's only to make sure I'm not in jail somewhere." He plucked Egon's beer out of his hand, took a sip, then stuck out his tongue. "Not for me to tell you what to do," he began gently, "but you might want to lay off this stuff. Pot is one thing but the rest can get pretty uncool after awhile."  
  
Egon reclaimed his glass and stared into its depths, puzzled. "I don't know what you've got against Miller, but you're right - it is none of your business."  
  
Peter's jaw tightened but he contented himself with a single, obscene gesture. "No skin off'a my nose. Yo! Chuck!"  
  
Blond hair bobbing, Weaver poked his head around the doorjamb, arm still clamped firmly around Rhoda. "Hey, Pete!" he drawled. "Wondered what happened to y'all. Last I saw, you was with Susan."  
  
Peter smacked his lips noisily. "I was with Susan and I'll be with Susan tomorrow. Right now I need a little sustenance. Wanna hand me a beer?"  
  
Dragging the drowsy girl with him, Weaver crossed to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer, tossing it in Peter's general direction. "Here ya go, man. Want some'a this here funny ice?"  
  
Venkman shuddered delicately, popping the top of his virgin can. "You know I don't do that route anymore, pal." He jerked his thumb in Egon's direction, adding cryptically, "Reverend Egon here flunked his experiment though."  
  
Chuck smiled knowingly; Egon glowered back. "I don't know what you're talking about," the physicist grumbled, stretching up to deposit the mushroom bowl in the sink. "I'm in perfect control."  
  
The smile transformed into an open smirk. "Control. Uh-huh. Right." He waved amiably and left, leaving Peter and Egon to drink in the relative peace of the kitchen. It was Egon who finally broke the minutes-long silence.  
  
"So, you're mother isn't crazy about your party life?" he asked, unsure as to why he wanted to know anything at all about this maddening man. "I was under the impression she was deceased."  
  
Peter cocked his head until he could peek in the older man's direction. "Why would you think she was dead?"  
  
Spengler shrugged. "You've never spoken of her. I just assumed...."  
  
"My mom," Peter began, leaning comfortably back against the counter, "lives right outside of Chicago. That's where Roger, her husband, owns his accounting firm." The thought of Peter Venkman learning at the feet of anyone as mundane as an accountant was so outré that Egon couldn't restrain the chuckle that rose. Peter peered closer. "What's so funny?"  
  
Egon spared him a mischievous look. "Funny, you don't look like the son of an accountant," he teased.  
  
For once Venkman's uncertain temper didn't ignite at the joke. Obviously, he found the concept amusing as well. "My parents divorced when I was six," he said, taking a swig of his beer, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "She didn't marry Roger until I'd been in college a year. I've always been grateful for that."  
  
Egon crossed his legs indian fashion, reflecting that he hadn't been able to do that earlier this morning. "My parents have been married twenty-nine years come August," he announced proudly. They were high school sweethearts; neither have ever even dated anyone else."  
  
Peter nodded approvingly. "That's rare these days. My dad blew into Chicago one day and blew back out six months later with a wedding ring and my mom. They only stayed together long enough to have me, then Charlie was back on the road and he's been there ever since."  
  
"Growing up with an absent father must have been tough," Egon asked with vague commiseration. "Do you see him often? I've only seen him visit you that one time this year."  
  
That did it. Peter turned to stone, and Egon could see the anger smoldering within at the imagined slight. "Dad was around as much as he could. It's kind of hard when you're ... in business for yourself. Especially around the holidays," he added in a lower tone."  
  
Egon raised one hand placatingly. "I'm certain he did his best," he acknowledged easily. "I was only asking if you had much time to spend together."  
  
"Oh." Venkman subsided, the emerald fires in his eyes banking suddenly. "Not ... not at first. He was in town only a couple times a year but ... it could have been ... worse." His voice picked up animation, as though he were exploring new territory. Perhaps he is, Egon reflected in surprise; Venkman is definitely not the type to share his innermost thoughts with anyone. Why he was doing so now Egon could not conceive. He gathered his muddled thoughts, determined to hear the man out.  
  
"It could have been worse," Peter repeated, stretching his legs out comfortably before him and crossing them at the ankle. "At least whenever he was there he was really there; that's more than a lot of kids could ask for. And he'd always send presents. Never remembered Christmas or birthdays, though. I...." He bit his lip hard. "I wish he'd shown up at least on Christmases. That was always the hard part." He broke off, dashing a sleeve across his face. "Man, am I getting maudlin or what?"  
  
He cast Egon a surreptitious glance seeking censor or perhaps ridicule, but Spengler kept his face carefully neutral. After a moment, Peter went on less defensively, "Besides, once I hit thirteen or so, I was old enough to join him over the summer vacations. Mom didn't like it but she knew I'd do it anyway with or without her approval. He always got me back in time to start school on time, anyway."  
  
Something crashed in the other room, then voices raised in furious indignation. The two paused to listen, then exchanged a look and a shrug. "Join him doing what?" Egon asked, picking up on the conversation where they'd left off. "Nothing dishonest?"  
  
Expecting an angry rebuff, Egon was mildly surprised when the psychologist only rolled his eyes. "We used to travel the midwest carnie circuit - Iowa, Nebraska, Missouri. Dad was a barker and I used to work as a roustabout." He shot Egon a boyish grin, which Egon felt compelled to return. "Not the most honest work we ever did but it kept us both out of jail. We'd hit Vegas in early September and I'd be the only kid in my school with pocket money."  
  
He paused, obviously growing uncomfortable with the openness. "Wonder if Ray's dad was around much," he said in a perfectly - for him - transparent attempt at changing the subject. "If he wasn't, it might explain ... a few things."  
  
Feeling mellow, Egon allowed the subject of Venkman's past to drop, moving on to the less personally threatening one of Stantz. "Ray's parents died just before his seventh birthday," he said, earning himself a startled look from the other. "He was raised in foster care." He blushed under the continued regard, adding, "The information was in the file I requested before I interviewed him. It's not precisely classified, you know."  
  
Peter massaged his chin thoughtfully. "Explains more than a few things, anyway. Knew the kid got that complex from somewhere, and being orphaned that young is a real good start on one." He scowled, audibly grinding his teeth together. "He also shows definite symptoms of mistreatment, but whether emotional or physical, I'm not sure; not sexual, though. I can't be certain if the source is his natural or foster family, either."  
  
It was Egon's turn to be startled. "Abuse?" he repeated, unable to reconcile the concept with his gentle young assistant. "You believe that boy was abused by his guardians?"  
  
Peter hesitated, then shrugged. "If you're looking for a professional diagnosis, look me up in the morning. If all you want is a mildly drunken opinion, then yeah, I'd say he was definitely abused over a period of time. A kid doesn't get his self-confidence beaten out of him overnight." He cleared his throat. "I ... guess I didn't have it so bad after all; I mean, at least I always knew my dad was ... somewhere." His voice dropped again until he was talking almost to himself. "And that he cared." He looked up with a rueful smile. "Guess neither one of us had the 'ideal' family life you did, eh?"  
  
Egon rolled his head until he could look out the screendoor into the tiny fenced-in garden bordering the back lot. If he squinted he could just make out a pale feminine form moving about in the dark. "My home life was pleasant and supportive," he admitted without apology. "But it was hardly ideal."  
  
"Your father was around a lot?" Peter asked by way of an accusation.  
  
Egon nodded. "Physically, at least." Muddled reminisce swamped him then, boosted by a sudden melancholy, as though all his energy was leeched away by the words. He barely heard Peter's inquisitive noises, but responded to them nonetheless.  
  
"My father and my uncle Cyrus are co-owners of a biolab in Cleveland. Spengler Labs, ever hear of it?" Peter shook his head, and Egon went on, "It's a highly respected research facility. They opened a smaller branch in Flushing; my parents moved there a few years ago."  
  
He trailed off again, the past more alive to him now than the present. He barely registered the discrete gurgling noise of Venkman emptying his beer can and it wasn't until the man had cleared his throat twice that Egon drew his attention away from the unassuming garden door, blond brow raised. "So, like, what does 'physically' mean?" Venkman prodded.  
  
Egon's lips twisted in a tiny half-smile. "My father is a brilliant biochemist; most of his life has been dedicated to the pursuit of advanced knowledge in the field. That, of course, requires a great deal of dedication - and concentration." He turned his head again, preferring to stare into the painful glare of the strobe to the knowing green eyes of his companion. "Especially concentration, and Father's is iron. When he is immersed in a project the rest of the universe effectively ceases to exist.  
  
"Father worked at home most of the time," Egon went on quietly, rocking his legs in rhythm to the music coming from the den. "But it didn't seem to matter much. Whenever he got a new project, my mother used to say, 'Boys, looks like we lost Nathan again." He laughed softly. "We could see him as often as we wished, but he wouldn't even realize we were in the room until he'd solved whatever problem he was laboring on at the moment."  
  
Egon felt a single light tap on his knee, then Peter spoke, the light tenor voice roughened with comradely sympathy. "Hey, that's too bad. Having a father who ignores you is just as bad as having one that's never around."  
  
Empathy was the one thing Egon had never received from Peter Venkman, and the one thing he was unprepared to accept. He turned to regard the younger scientist with one eye, deliberately banishing yesterday to the past. "Perhaps I'm painting too harsh a picture. Most of the time Father is quite attentative - Mother would have never stood for less from him."  
  
He settled his head back, returning his gaze to the quiet garden. "The times I remember best are the afternoons I would seek him out on some pretense or another. He'd pull a high chair up to the bench and lift me up on it, then take the time to explain whatever it was he was working on. He loved to teach and was very good at it." Egon felt his adams apple bob as he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "He's not a demonstrative man, but neither Morrie nor I have ever doubted his affections."  
  
There was a muffled rumble from his left and Egon turned to see Peter Venkman, legs sprawled straight, head fallen forward on his breast. Egon reached over and grabbed a handful of thick hair, using it to lift the man's head. Peter's mouth fell open, allowing another snore to escape; Egon released him. "Now who can't hold his ... er ... enhancements?" he rumbled with more than a trace of self-righteousness. "Even if I will admit that there might be more to you than I'd originally estimated."  
  
Peter slept on unaware and Egon looked around again, a frown marring his forehead. "Wonder what did happen to Frieda? I'm certain she has far greater intelligence than to fall for Frankie McCall's line. I ought to go look for her." He lurched upward, making it almost to his knees before slumping back against the sleeping Venkman. "Maybe I ought to sit here for just a few minutes longer," he mumbled, heavy lids drooping to half mast then shut. "Just a few minutes to ... rest my eyes. Yes, that's it. I'll just ... rest my eyes."  
  
Thirty seconds later his heavier snores joined Peters, and Egon slept the sleep of the righteous. It was two hours later that an ominous figure knelt by Egon's side, blocking out the light of the rising sun.  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

Ray paced nervously, the click of his low boots on the tiles soon falling into cadence with the irregular rhythm of the typewriter. He'd arrived at nine thirty-five, explaining that he was scheduled to meet Dr. Spengler here for their ten o'clock appointment. McKenna's secretary had waved him to a seat, where he'd fidgeted badly until finally rising to wander the room. The secretary, a squat matron bearing the unlikely appellation of Dolly Madison, according to her name plate, had kept her head down at first, her furrowed brow ample evidence of the difficulty she was having concentrating on the financial projection she was typing. But as ten o'clock came and went and there was still no sign of Spengler, Ray's steps grew more erratic, the typing slowing proportionately.  
  
"Where could he be?" Ray muttered to himself, glancing at the wall clock. "Dr. Spengler is never late."  
  
"Well, he's late now," the secretary snapped, giving up on the report to glare over her spectacles in the young man's direction. "And Professor McKenna has another meeting this morning. He's doing you a favor by seeing you on a Saturday at all."  
  
Ray ducked his head to contemplate a cigarette stain on the baseboard. "I ... I know, ma'am," he said quietly. "We appreciate that."  
  
Mrs. Madison's glare softened fractionally at the humble response. She removed her glasses, allowing them to dangle from the cord around her neck. "Perhaps Dr. Spengler simply forgot about the appointment," she suggested with a hint of benevolence. "We're quite used to absent minded scientists around here."  
  
Ray shook his head. "No, ma'am, not Dr. Spengler. He doesn't really forget anything, but sometimes he just ... well, gets distracted, that's all."  
  
"We're used to distracted scientists around here, too," Madison returned dryly. She twisted in her seat when the door to McKenna's inner chambers opened and the Professor peered out.  
  
"Mrs. Madison?"  
  
"Yes, Professor McKenna?"  
  
"Didn't I have a ten o'clock appointment?" His gaze settled on Ray, who had gone utterly still in the corner. "You're not Dr. Spengler," he pointed out by way of accusation.  
  
Ray gulped, his eyes widening in consternation. "I ... no, sir. Dr. Spengler isn't ... I mean, I don't know where...."  
  
"This is Ray Stantz," Mrs. Madison spoke up when the discomfited young man trailed off. "He's Egon's lab assistant."  
  
The old man nodded expectantly at the introduction. "And where is Dr. Spengler?"  
  
Ray shifted uncomfortably and rubbed the toe of one shoe against the back of his leg. "I don't know, sir. He was supposed to meet me here, but...." He waved at the conspicuously empty room, mute testimony to the physicist's absence.  
  
McKenna checked his watch. "It's ten-twenty now. Mrs. Madison, when is my next meeting?"  
  
"Ten-thirty," the woman answered promptly. "And if you're late, Dean Yeager will be very annoyed." Her tone amply conveyed the disaster that would be.  
  
McKenna sighed. "Very well. Uh ... Ray is it? Ray, why don't you go find out what happened to Dr. Spengler. I may be able to squeeze you in at noon, provided the meeting with Yeager doesn't go overtime."  
  
Stantz nodded eagerly and backed away, eyes never leaving McKenna's. "Yes, sir. I'll get him. Thank you, sir!" Reaching the door, he snagged his long coat from a hook and fled, leaving McKenna and Madison to stare after him with amusement.  
  
"We haven't scared a student in quite awhile," McKenna chuckled, patting the woman on the arm. "The boy must be the nervous type. And what the devil did happen to Egon?"  
  
That was precisely the same question Stantz was asking himself. He left the administration building as though shot from a cannon, stopping outside to glance frantically in every direction. "Where is he?" he queried aloud, earning a sharp stare from a buxom co-ed in a jogging suit. "What could have happened to him?" The unseasonably warm spring sun beat down uncaringly, and he slung his coat over his shoulder rather than putting it on. He chose a direction at random and started off at a dead run, ever vigilant for the unusual blond wave that marked the scientist.  
  
He had searched for some time before skidding to a stop, a look of purest dread crossing his youthful features. "There might have been an accident! He could be hurt! Or...." He gasped, jaw dropping. "What if...?"  
  
He shook his head, visibly striving for control. "The lab," he told himself, breathing heavily from his run. "I'd better try the lab first. Maybe he did just forget."  
  
But the lab was dark and silent and showed no signs that it had been disturbed since the previous eve. Ray let himself in and looked around, scissoring his lip between his teeth. After a moment's thought he picked up the phone, dialing Spengler's apartment. The distant ringing went on and on before it was finally picked up.  
  
"Who is this?" a sleepy feminine voice demanded.  
  
Ray took a deep breath. "I-I'm Ray Stantz. I'm looking for ... for Dr. Spengler? Is he there?"  
  
The woman paused for a long minute, then the sound of an irritated growl came loud over the wires. "No, Dr. Spengler is not here," she snapped at last. "And neither will I be in another couple of hours. If you find the son of a bitch you can tell him I said so, got it?"  
  
"Uh ... yes." But a loud click proclaimed that Ray was now talking to himself. He recradled the instrument thoughtfully and rubbed his smooth jaw. "Where?" he asked again, amber eyes haunted. "Where did he say...? Wait a minute! The party!" He snapped his fingers in recollection, though his hopeful expression disappeared almost at once. "But he would have taken his girlfriend to that party. If she was home, why isn't he?"  
  
He wrapped his arms around his chest, fingers digging into the wool of his sweater. Head bent, he again resumed his pacing, occasionally stopping to stare out the window. "But maybe they didn't leave together," he said, brightening in sudden revelation. "Sometimes Peter doesn't leave with the girl he went with. Maybe Egon is still at the party? Or ... or maybe someone there knows where he went!"  
  
Another phone call told him which building Susan Newman lived in, and Ray headed there at a fast clip, his breath escaping in little puffs from the unaccustomed exertion. He climbed the dorm steps three at a time, hesitating before the heavy wooden door leading inside. "Hope they're not still asleep," he panted, raising his hand to knock.  
  
He rapped once, taking a hurried step backward when the unlocked door swung slowly open, revealing a dimly lit hall and den. Trepidatiously, he stuck his head inside and looked around. "Hello?" he called. "Is there anybody here?"  
  
"Yo." The answer came, surprisingly, from below. Ray looked down, having to squint to make out the prone body lolling across the entranceway. "You wanna keep it down? People are suffering in here."  
  
Ray squatted on his heels until he was able to make out the person's face. In the available light, all that was visible was a pale blur topped by dark hair - definitely not the man Ray sought. "Excuse me," he began in a soft voice. "But I'm looking for Egon Spengler. Do you know if he's here?"  
  
The stranger made a noise in his throat and rolled over. "No idea, man, but feel free to look around. Quietly."  
  
"Right." Ray rose, brushing absently at his jeans, and began a careful check of the den, pausing to study each blond head, asking anyone conscious the whereabouts of the tall physicist. He recognized Peter's friend, Chuck Weaver, who was sitting muzzily in one corner staring at a flashing stereo light. The man grumbled something obscene in answer to Ray's inquiry and Ray moved off, circling to the next victim. In this way he gradually worked his way into the kitchen, which was more brightly lit by sunlight streaming in the screendoor. It was here, sprawled nearly full-length across the linoleum, that he encountered the first friendly figure of the morning.  
  
"Peter?" Ray shoved aside an empty beer can and lowered himself to one knee, shifting his forgotten coat higher on his shoulder. "Peter, please wake up," he called, shaking one silk-clad arm firmly. "I have to talk to you."  
  
Venkman stirred, lifting his head from his breast with obvious reluctance. "Huh? Whazzah?" he croaked. He clapped his hands to his temples then looked like he wished he hadn't. "Ray, is that you?"  
  
"Yes, Peter," Stantz answered, having to buttress the psychologist on one side as he sagged. "Peter, I can't find Egon anywhere. I think he's in trouble."  
  
Groaning loudly, Venkman deigned crack open one eye, fixing it on Ray's anxious features. "Who's in trouble?" he asked blankly. "What happened?"  
  
"Egon." Moderating his tone again at Peter's wince, Ray continued barely above a murmur. "Egon missed a meeting with Professor McKenna this morning. You know Egon, he never misses meetings!"  
  
"Probably home sleeping last night off," Peter growled, some memory bringing a sparkle of life to his expression. "He ... uh ... indulged a bit."  
  
Ray shook his head unequivocally. "I already checked there. His girlfriend said he hasn't been home, and I don't see him here, either! Do- do you think something ... happened to him?"  
  
Venkman opened both eyes at that. He leaned his head back against the cabinet, rubbing his temples with his thumbs. "Last thing I remember, he was sitting here next to me droning on about his parents. But...." He scowled, rolling his eyes in an effort at recollection. "I do remember him watching some chick wandering the garden. Maybe he made his move. Did you check outside? Or one of the bedrooms upstairs?"  
  
The suggestion brought a blush to Ray's cheeks. He looked away, suddenly finding the empty beer can a fascinating study. "I-I can't go up there," he said in a scandalized voice. "I mean ... he might be.... I can't."  
  
Peter blinked, amusement erasing a fraction of the discomfort from his features. "Try the garden then," he suggested considerately. "If he's not there, I'll check upstairs for you." He shut his eyes again, sighing loudly. "Even a stacked blonde wouldn't have had a snowball's chance of getting me up this morning. Count yourself honored, kid."  
  
"Thanks, Peter," Ray responded dutifully but with real gratitude. He stepped across Peter's outstretched legs and pushed open the screen door, poking his head outside and scanning the tiny enclosed garden warily, as though expecting to surprise Spengler and the unnamed female en flagrante delicto. On the first scan, however, the garden appeared untenanted. It wasn't until Ray had stepped out onto the wooden porch that a harsh rumbling became audible. Frowning his puzzlement, he followed the sound to the far fence, to where a mound of new earth lay. He stepped across it and halted, astonishment dropping his jaw upon discovering the very man he'd searched the campus for.  
  
Long hair trailed on either side of the angular cheeks, slightly matted but otherwise unsullied by the soil which covered Egon Spengler to the neck. Someone had taken quite a lot of care in burying him, for the soil was tamped down neatly to within a single inch of the peaceful face, and a small bolster pillow supported the blond head comfortably. The full lips were parted, allowing another loud snore to emerge, followed by a snort, a grunt and a groan in that order as consciousness returned.  
  
"Grmlph," was the less-than-decipherable first word as puffy lids rose. "Mzzzlpuf?"  
  
"Egon?" Shocked, Ray could only stare down into the bleary blue gaze of his teacher, mentor and role model, his own eyes wide as saucers. Uncomprehending, Spengler stared back, apparently unaware of his unique positioning. "Egon, they.... You're...."  
  
Spengler blinked twice, and the earth quivered slightly from below. Endeavor at motion stalled, the physicist lifted his head, directing his blank gaze the length of his body - or where his body should have been. "Holy ... jumping...." he gasped, eyes now wide open. "They cut off my head! YEEEAAAAGH!"  
  
The last was emitted as a panicked wail, and the blond head tossed with the man's efforts at freeing himself. The internment had been handled competently, however, and his efforts were to no avail. Ray dropped his coat carelessly to the ground and fell to his knees, digging furiously in the packed dirt. "I'll get you out, Egon," he gasped, soil flying in all directions. "Don't worry."  
  
"Yes, Egon, don't worry!"  
  
As the last was offered in neither Spengler's resonant bass nor Ray's soft tenor, both men ceased their struggles to exchange a look, then unitedly glanced up, gaping at the heretofore unnoticed crowd that had gathered on the far side of the mound. Peter Venkman was foremost in the throng, leaning heavily against Charlie Weaver's shoulder, a huge grin decorating his smudged countenance. The grin was echoed by everyone there, later estimated to be a crowd of an even dozen, all rumpled, hung over and highly amused.  
  
Peter tilted his head, examining the physicist with a critical air. "You know, Egon," he offered seriously, "I think potting soil suits you somehow. You look so ... herbal."  
  
Egon glared at the lounging psychologist, and the look in the blue eyes should have vaporized the man on the spot. "This was your doing, Venkman!" he charged, renewing his escape effort with a vengeance. "I'll pulverize you for this!"  
  
Peter tsk'd loudly, raising one hand in an I-don't-know-what-you're-talking- about gesture. "Whoa, booby, don't blame me for this one. I passed out before you did last night, remember?"  
  
"I don't care!" Fury turning the blue eyes to winter ice, Spengler managed to release one arm, grimacing at the stains on his white linen sleeve. He shoved Ray rudely aside to finish the digging himself. "I know you're behind this somehow."  
  
"Wahl, gee, Doctor Spengler," Weaver drawled lazily. "Y'all shouldn't go on blamin' Pete! There's lots o' folks who just love a good joshing. Am I right, gang?"  
  
There was immediate acknowledgement, along with several low snickers and a guffaw. Egon ignored them all, finally succeeding in freeing his other arm, then allowing Ray to pull him to his feet. "I don't care," Egon went on angrily. "I...." He froze, standing stock still in Ray's grasp. "Ray?" he asked through barely parted lips.  
  
Ray's gaze dropped, the second blush of the day coloring his cheeks. "Oh, Egon," he breathed, horrified. "You're not wearing any pants!"  
  
Spengler looked down at last, flagging visibly in the morning light, and a roar of laughter erupted from the onlookers, liberally interspersed with catcalls and hearty applause. That the scarlet staining his pale cheeks extended itself over every square inch of his body was evident.  
  
"We wondered what Frieda saw in you," Susan Newman commented, peeking around Weaver's bulk. "Now we know."  
  
"No, we don't," Peter jeered, his scrutiny never rising above waist-level. "And I've seen better drumsticks at the supermarket."  
  
Egon appealed skyward, a single muscle twitching in his square jaw. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again there was more resignation than outrage written in their sapphire depths. "Raymond," he said calmly, having to physically shake the boy out of his stunned paralysis. "Hand me your coat, please. We're leaving."  
  
Ray scrambled to comply, looking as though he expected any one of the crowd to snatch the garment away before he could touch it. Egon slipped it on over his filthy shirt, buttoning it all the way to his knees. The sight of him standing there in the several inches too-short apparel, long arms and bony legs sticking out, was so absurd that a whole new spate of laughter exploded among the group, which had by now swelled to twenty with the addition of members of the sorority from next door.  
  
"Come, Raymond," he ordered, sweeping regally through the crowd, head high. "I have an appointment with Professor McKenna."  
  
"Nice seeing you, Egon!" Peter called in farewell, adding, "You know, I wonder why Frieda does go out with him?"  
  
***  
  
"Hey! Ray! Wait up!"  
  
Ray Stantz stopped his headlong rush across the campus grounds, taking a moment to glance nervously at his watch. The hands stood at three minutes to ten, and if he didn't hurry he'd be late for Professor Broadwell's history class. Ray winced at the thought of walking into the irascible man's lecture once it had begun - the Professor hated to be interrupted during one of his lectures by tardy arrivers, and went out of his way to make miserable the life of any offenders. Ray had hoped that he might be able to sneak in while the teacher was setting up, and slumped as the second hand rapidly disabused him of that particular aspiration. The soft hail was repeated, however, and politely bred, he halted to awaiting the petite, youthful looking brunette who ran up, books swinging from both hands. "Hi, Ray! Gee, I've called you three times already."  
  
"Hi, Janice," Ray greeted her shyly, hugging his own books to his chest like a shield. "I didn't hear you back there."  
  
Janice Smithers smiled widely and tossed her head, flicking a short brown curl out of her eyes. "Oh, that's okay! I haven't seen you since I dropped out of the Engineering program. How have you been?"  
  
Ray lifted one shoulder in a little shrug, wondering at the girl's sudden interest. They'd shared three classes in the fall and had exchanged no more than a respectful apology when he'd accidentally bumped into her in the hall. It was then he realized that that last had been a question. "I'm- I'm fine, Janice. Um ... how about you?"  
  
"Oh, terrific!" The girl brandished one of her notebooks proudly. "I switched majors when I decided I didn't want to be an Engineer after all. All that math...." She wrinkled her pert little nose in a way Ray found utterly entrancing. "I switched to Special Ed, and got accepted in the music department for my minor! Look here." She opened the notebook and pulled out a collection of sheetmusic from an inner pocket. "I've been doing a little composing in my spare time and I think I even have a real talent for it! Isn't that great?!"  
  
"Gosh, that's ... uh ... great," Ray returned, frantically trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound inane. "I'm glad you're doing so ... great." He dutifully followed along as she produced sheet after sheet, clutching his books until his knuckles turned white. Janice talked on and Ray listened, darting an occasional look into her face when he thought she wasn't looking. Janice was so pretty ... why was she standing here talking to him? What could she need? Or maybe she didn't need anything, maybe she was talking to him because ... she ... wanted to?  
  
The big church clock chose that moment to strike the hour and Ray made a little sound of alarm. There would definitely be no sneaking into Professor Broadwell's class now. His dismay must have shown on his face, for Janice broke off her light chatter to glance at the dainty pendent watch she wore around her neck.  
  
"Ooops! Ten o'clock. You're late for class, aren't you?" she guessed. "You should have said something instead of letting me chatter on like that."  
  
Ray smiled at her teasing tone. "No, it's all right. I ... I can still make it." I'm really in for it now, he added, strangely not caring anymore.  
  
Janice restowed her music, then tucked the binder under her arm. "No problem. I'll walk with you. I'm headed that way anyway."  
  
Delighted by the unexpected thoughtfulness, Ray smiled and started off, for once not thinking of the consequences of walking into Broadwell's class late. He talked about the engineering class they'd shared, Ray chatting anxiously to prevent any uncomfortable silences from falling. She listened closely, Ray thought, pleased that he hadn't said one stupid thing yet. Yet, he emphasized disparagingly. But no, Janice honestly seemed interested in what he was saying. This he believed for several minutes, until he began to tell her about the metallurgical experiment he was conducting.  
  
"Gee, Ray, that's...." She broke off suddenly, covering her mouth against a yawn. "Excuse me."  
  
Ray gulped. "Gosh, I guess I get a little ... a little boring when I'm t- talking," he apologized, feeling a lead weight drop in his stomach. "I'm sorry."  
  
Smithers brushed that aside with a negligent hand. "It's not you, Ray, you were fascinating. I just haven't been sleeping very well lately."  
  
Fascinating! Ray repeated to himself, his cheeks turning pink. Wow! Pleased by the description, it was still with friendly concern that he said, "Gosh, I'm sorry you're not sleeping well. Have you been ill?"  
  
Janice came to a stop, dark brown eyes hooded. "Nope! And I'm not having any personal problems, either." She frowned prettily, rose painted lips tight. "You know, I just can't figure it. First I have trouble getting to sleep, then when I finally do drop off I get all these really weird dreams. How do you figure it?"  
  
Ray pulled at his ear lobe thoughtfully. "That's not really my field, Janice. Maybe you should talk to Peter Venkman over at Weaver Hall. He's involved in Professor McKenna's sleep research. Maybe he can help."  
  
Janice knuckled her eyes wearily. "I wish someone could. Things are starting to wear on me, know what I mean? And those dreams...." She broke off with a shiver. "Really weird, and so intense! As if I'm watching them really happen instead of just dreaming it!"  
  
Ray patted her shoulder awkwardly, more than a little astounded at his own boldness. "I'll ask Peter to talk to you. He'll do it. He's real ... nice lately."  
  
Janice regarded him doubtfully, then nodded. "It never occurred to me to get professional help but.... Okay, Ray, you know best. Set it up for me and I'll be there, okay?"  
  
Stantz nodded eagerly. "Sure Janice! That'd be great!" The big clock down the street clanged the quarter hour and Ray stiffened, panic replacing the pleased smile he'd been wearing. "Oh, my gosh! Professor Broadwell! I have to go!"  
  
In a surprising move, Janice rose up on her toes, planting a quick kiss on Ray's cheek. "Thanks, Ray! See you!" Then she trotted off, offering him a last smile over her shoulder as she went.  
  
Ray stared after her for a long time, stunned and delighted by the action, then flew the rest of the way, light as the proverbial bird. Even the chewing out Broadwell gave him for being late didn't ruin his 'great' mood.  
  
***  
  
It had been a quiet morning and was threatening to be an even quieter afternoon. Peter was sunk deep into a morass of ungraded tests he had studiously ignored for weeks, pen flying across one coffee- or Coke-stained sheet after another. He'd originally requisitioned Ray's help for the grading, an experiment abandoned after he'd gotten a look at the young man's first attempt.  
  
"Ray," Peter explained patiently, squinting at the large, barely-legible scrawl covering fully one-quarter of the sheet, "the answer to question eight is not 'latent cross-nexus contact.' These kids are in my class to learn the components of their own cognizance; they're not there to psycho- dissect Count Dracula."  
  
"Sorry, Peter," Ray apologized sheepishly. He unbuttoned his cuffs, then began rolling the sleeves of his checkered shirt up over his forearms. "I guess I got carried away. Cross-nexus contact was what Professor Broadwell was talking about in class yesterday; he said he'd gotten the information from Egon the month before." Sleeves arranged to his satisfaction, he leaned forward, tapping the tall blond lightly on the elbow. "He said your conclusions were brilliant, Egon, and if there were more parapsychologists around like you and him, the field would have advanced a lot faster than it has."  
  
Spengler contrived to look modest, a transparent attempt considering the way his jaw jutted forward. "Henry is a brilliant man in his own right," he remarked, snapping his suspenders loudly. "I don't know him well on a social level, but we corresponded regularly before I came to Columbia. I'm even considering taking his parapsychology course myself next semester, once I finish Celtic Rites and Rituals."  
  
"Parapsychology," Peter snorted, removing the rest of the tests to his own desk. "A little legitimate analysis would clear up your parapsychology in no time flat."  
  
Egon's eyes narrowed at that but he allowed the comment to pass unchallenged. He took Ray over then, pulling his own chair up to the little cardtable and beginning a long-winded explanation of the developing telemetry netting they were working on, and how it would fit into the larger analyzer in the corner.  
  
It wasn't long, however, before Ray's attention began to wander. He took to staring for long periods out the nearby window, chewing his lower lip meditatively. The mass of wires Egon had shoved at him by way of visual aid, lay forgotten in his hand, he obviously finding the slowly drifting cloudbank without fascinating. He sighed and let them drop to the table, then rested his chin in his free palm, his eyes very far away indeed.  
  
"Isn't it almost time?" he mumbled aloud, interrupting midsentence Egon's brand new lecture on occlusive fundamentalism. The blond broke off to stare at his assistant curiously.  
  
"Almost time for what?" he asked, glancing at his own watch. "You don't have a class this afternoon, do you?"  
  
Ray started, his eyes focusing on the other man with a snap. He squirmed and picked up a nearby printed circuit, lowering his head to study it closely. "Uh, almost time for ... um ... lunch. I just thought ... maybe I could use a little ... something to eat, is all."  
  
"We just got back from lunch," Egon pointed out gently, loosening his tie. "What's the matter with you, Raymond? You've been distracted all morning."  
  
"Nothing." Ray heaved another sigh, deeper and more heartfelt than the first. As this was his fourth in as many minutes, it won an amused look from Peter Venkman, who lounged comfortably on his spine, feet up.  
  
"Relax, kid, she'll be here," Peter advised, smiling at the guilty look that crossed the younger man's face. "Man, this chick's got you bad, doesn't she? Must be some kind of looker, eh?"  
  
Ray blushed hotly and shook his head. "It's nothing like that," he protested, though his eyes gleamed like new topaz. "She's just ... you know."  
  
Peter's grin widened though there was no mockery in his voice. "Yeah, kid, I know. You ask her out yet?"  
  
Ray ducked his head, blushing even deeper. "No," he whispered, barely audible. "I've ... only talked to her twice."  
  
Peter chuckled. "Only twice and such an impression? Yep. Must be some looker, all right. Think she might be my type?"  
  
Ray's budding smile flickered but his expression was guileless and his eyes, when they met Peter's, carried more than a touch of admiration for the psychologist and no jealousy at all. "She'll like you a lot," he said quietly. "And I know you'll like her, too."  
  
Such open regard, so strong as to border on worship, put Peter off his stride for a single moment. He stared hard into the unshielded amber, finding nothing there but innocent respect. Slowly, his own eyes thawed, changing from hard emerald into a mossy jade. "She'll probably like you better," he said, acknowledging the humble compliment with a warm, very genuine smile. "Nice girl, eh?"  
  
Ray nodded happily, then Egon leaned across the table, resting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You said you'd only spoken to her twice before," he began seriously. "Don't pin your hopes too heavily on a short conversation. You might not be interpreting her friendliness properly."  
  
Ray's face fell and Peter stared, surprised at the warning note in the deep bass. "I've 'interpreted' a lot less than that, Spengs," he pointed out crossly. "For that matter, so have you. Why shouldn't the kid take his shot?" He peered more closely at the big blond, brows drawn low. "And who put the poker up your bottom all of a sudden? Is there something about this chick we should...?"  
  
A knock sounded then, breaking in on whatever it was Peter had been about to say. He opened his mouth but it was Ray who called, "Come in!" before leaping to his feet.  
  
The door opened to admit Janice Smithers, tiny frame squeezed into an even tinier skirt and blouse combination. She swept her curls from her pert face, smiling at Ray as he approached to stand only feet away. "Hi, stranger!" she teased, brushing his hand with her fingers. "I was wondering if you were going to be here."  
  
"H-hi, Janice," Ray stammered, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I-I'm glad you could come."  
  
"Yeah. Me too." Janice waited, looking expectantly into his face. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"  
  
Ray blinked himself out of his trance and stepped aside, giving the woman her first clear view of the room. "Over there's Egon Spengler," he said, gesturing at the blond, who nodded politely. "And this is Peter Venkman. Peter...."  
  
"Oh!" The startled gasp came from Janice. She pressed both hands to her mouth, staring at Peter as though he'd just come from the moon. "You're Peter Venkman? You are?"  
  
Peter slithered around until he was more nearly vertical than horizontal, and dropped his feet to the floor. "Yeeeees," he purred, one dark brow disappearing into his hairline. "Have we met?"  
  
"Yes! I mean, no. I mean, it's not just you, it's...." Janice waved a helpless hand at the entire room, then clasped them both at waist level, finishing with, "Sort of."  
  
"Uh-huh." Peter nodded sagely, then gestured to the empty chair by his desk. "Why don't you sit down, Miss Smithers, and tell me how we sort of know each other."  
  
Janice smiled shakily at Ray and seated herself, primly tugging her short skirt another inch down her thighs. Peter smiled appreciatively; Ray swallowed and ducked his head.  
  
"I'm sorry I'm behaving so foolishly," Janice went on, collecting herself with an obvious effort, "it's just that I really do know you even though we've never met, and I know this room - intimately - even though I've never been here."  
  
She leaned forward and took a deep breath, a maneuver that did nothing to wipe the little smile from Peter's lips; Egon used the pause to return to his own desk, turning his chair around until he and the woman could see each other. "Mr. Venkman, last night I dreamed about being here in absolute detail. I know and this room even though I've never been here before." She licked her lips, meeting his gaze frankly. "I even saw you here and you were wearing a blue shirt and black slacks, just like you are now."  
  
Ray and Egon exchanged a look over her curly head; Peter straightened in his chair, green eyes beginning to glitter. "Ray, did you...?" he began, glancing at the young man at his side. Ray stared innocently back and after a moment Peter shook his head. "Nawww, you wouldn't." He turned back to Janice, adopting the professionally neutral tone he assumed whenever he dealt with a subject he had his doubts about. "That's very interesting, Janice. Why don't you tell me about it?"  
  
Smithers crossed her legs at the knee, smiling when three pairs of male eyes followed the motion automatically. "No, really! It's the truth. And I can prove it." She closed her eyes, then covered them with her hands. "I'm going to describe what's behind that partition thingie in the corner. Ready?"  
  
Ray hopped across the room, taking up an eager stance on the far side of the glass. "Ready!" he called, overriding Peter's protest.  
  
Janice paused. "I saw two hardbacked, brown chairs about ... so far apart ..." She measured a width of two feet with her hands without opening her eyes. "... and one shelf up on the wall with some books on it. One of them is called...." Her brow furrowed in concentration for a long moment, then cleared. "It's called Alchemy's Fall and it's by ... Freiderick von Holmann. The next two are in ... is that Greek? And the last one is called The Necromancer. I can't see the author."  
  
"It's also by von Holmann," Egon supplied when the woman could again see. "Very impressive, Miss Smithers."  
  
"Wow!" Ray yipped, returning to Peter's side. "She was right, Peter! Every time!"  
  
Janice beamed though there was a touch of worry in her expression. "That's never happened to me before! It's so ... cool! But kind of scary, too, know what I mean?"  
  
"I suppose it could be, Janice," Peter replied soothingly. "Can you tell me something else? Like what's in my top desk drawer?"  
  
A hush fell across the room during which the only sound was Ray's sharp breathing. Janice looked from him to Peter to Egon, whose fingers moved unconcernedly together in patterns, markedly not meeting her gaze. After a moment, Janice closed her eyes, tilting her head back as though in a listening attitude. "You did open your top drawer in my dream," she murmured softly. "In it you have ... your class schedule ... a cheese sandwich and...." She opened her eyes to regard Peter with open puzzlement. "Ladies' underwear?"  
  
Peter had the good grace to blush. "They were a present," he returned virtuously.  
  
Ray reached across Peter and yanked open the drawer. "She's right again!" he cheered, pulling out the underwear and holding them aloft like a prize. "Wow!"  
  
"Go get your own Frederick's," Peter snapped, retrieving his 'present' and re-stowing them. Peter chose at random several other hidden objects, all of which Smithers described in unerring detail. When he was through, he regarded the woman for a full minute, his expression thoughtful. "I'd like to put you through a couple of tests, Miss Smithers," he said, rising. "They're standard esper calibrations."  
  
"Well...." Janice began doubtfully.  
  
Egon too rose, and touched Venkman on the arm. "I'd very much appreciate the opportunity to sit in on this," he requested. "It should prove interesting for us both."  
  
Peter regarded him narrowly for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, Spengs, but one comment...."  
  
"Who? Me?" Egon responded in his most innocent voice. "I wouldn't think of disparaging your research, Peter."  
  
"You mean you wouldn't dare," Peter muttered, beginning to plan his approach. 


	8. Chapter 8

Late winter-early spring is a lovely season anywhere in the world but in New York City it represents a special time, a time of cleansing showers washing away the street grime, of tiny buds thrusting their heads through old concrete, and a time of balmy winds blowing away city smog. Though still changeable, the weather is tolerable at least, temperate at best. Even before spring's official start, much of the populace has emerged from winter's cocoon to wander the streets, enjoy the bright sun and generally resume the outdoors existence denied them during the harsh winter months.  
  
This may be true with most of New York but it hardly applied to the tiny lab nestled on the third floor of Weaver Hall, Columbia University, New York, New York. The atmosphere within was festive but engaged, all minds focused b on the small feminine figure that lounged comfortably in the guest chair by Peter's desk.  
  
Janice Smithers had returned several times over the seceding two weeks, she, Peter and Egon repairing to the little cubical where Peter ran every standard and not-so-standard test he could come up with to test the woman's alleged abilities. Some she failed miserably: she was unable to read or sense the mind of a student pulled at random, for example, and had no success whatsoever at predicting what Professor McKenna would order for lunch. Others she passed spectacularly, especially in relating events already passed or locating missing objects. When her success rate passed ninety-two percent, Peter started to get excited, talking, reading and writing of nothing else. His curiosity was well and truly piqued by this evidence of actual extrasensory ability, and he threw himself into the study in a way the other two had never before seen. At the end of the second week it could accurately be said that Peter Venkman, skeptic extraordinare, was well and truly hooked.  
  
Egon Spengler too showed every evidence of fascination with the subject. He attended each and every session with the woman, sitting by Peter's side and peering avidly over his shoulder at every test and measure, fidgeting anxiously, much to Peter's annoyance. The two were too caught up in the continuing experiments to mind, however, and worked harmoniously whenever Janice Smithers' tests were scheduled.  
  
In the background, Ray Stantz hovered, getting in the way, approaching at all the wrong moments and generally betraying a deep interest as well - in Janice. Too shy to speak to her personally, he made himself available for any job or errand that would bring him in close proximity to the girl, a situation Janice accepted with friendly equanimity.  
  
Now on this, the first day of April, the four were gathered once again, though not for tests. This time three sat in inquisitive expectation for the announcement promised by their fourth.  
  
Peter began the meeting by rising from his chair and adopting a mildly pompous attitude, aquiline nose twitching like a rabbit. "Glad you're all here," he said, nodding to Janice, Egon and Ray, who were seated around him in a rough circle. "On this most truly momentous day."  
  
"It's Tuesday," Egon pointed out dryly. "Hardly the most momentous day I've ever experienced."  
  
"They had meatloaf in the cafeteria," Ray put in, wrinkling his nose. "I hate it when they have meatloaf."  
  
"I generally go home for lunch for that very fact," Egon returned, rubbing his stomach through his button down pink shirt.  
  
"You have something you wanted to tell us, Peter?" Janice urged, glancing at her watch. "I have to be in class in twenty minutes."  
  
Peter, who had been waiting fists on his hips throughout the conversation, turned his glower on each individually, the tap of his sneaker-clad foot loud in the sudden quiet. "Yes," he began through clenched teeth, "I do have something to tell you." Assured of their attention, he fished through a pile of papers, locating the one he sought and lifting it until all could see it. "I wanted to announce to you all that I have finally submitted for publication the case of Miss Janice Smithers to Psychology Today."  
  
"You're publishing on esp?" Ray exclaimed, leaning forward excitedly. "Peter, that's great!"  
  
Egon rose, extending his hand courteously. "Congratulations, Venkman. I'm certain the article will be received with great interest."  
  
"I'm sure it will," Venkman returned modestly. He fixed his gaze on Smithers and waited, but if he was anticipating more accolades, he was to be disappointed.  
  
"Uh, gee, I'm not so sure about this," Janice said, dividing a worried glance between Peter and Egon. "I don't know if I want to be published."  
  
"Not want to be published?!" Peter regarded her with something like horror. "They've accepted the paper on the basis of your test results. It's only one example, of course, and my review is only being offered as part of a larger study, but there's so little documentation on the subject...."  
  
"Why wouldn't you want to be published, Janice?" Ray asked, tilting his head to look at her. "I think it would be neat, even if it is only one paper."  
  
Janice bit her lip. "Well.... I mean ... uh ... working with you guys is one thing, but I really don't want to end up spread across the 'bloids, you know?"  
  
"Psychology Today isn't anything like that," Ray explained eagerly. "It's a reputable scientific journal." He leaped to his feet, hopping lightly across Smithers' legs and reaching the door in two strides. "I'll show you. Professor Cage has a whole stack of them! I'll get one." He dived through the door, and they could hear the rapid tatoo of his footfalls echoing down the hall.  
  
Peter rested his hand lightly on the woman's knee, staring deep into her eyes with every iota of persuasive logic at his command. "Janice, I really need the results from your tests. I'm prepared to use a pseudonym for you, but the journal is going to require documentation on something like this."  
  
"It would certainly 'make' your reputation, Peter," Egon interjected smoothly. "I'm sure the scientific community will discuss this article for months to come."  
  
Peter glowed. "Only if Janice will go along. "Janice?" he called pleadingly.  
  
"Well, I guess...."  
  
The woman had no opportunity for further response, however, for at that moment the door opened and Chuck Weaver strolled in without knocking. "Yo, Pete!" he called heartily. "You busy? Oh, hi, Janice. How's it going with the new part?"  
  
"Ye--" Peter began, stopping suddenly. "Part?"  
  
Janice froze; Chuck clapped the girl on the shoulder. "She didn't tell you? Janice is up for the lead in one of them improv shows in the Village. She's good enough to get it, too - probably the best little actress in the city!"  
  
"Actress?" Peter echoed, obviously having trouble with the concept. "Janice is an actress?"  
  
Puzzled, Chuck could only stare from the stunned Peter to the nervous Smithers to the decidedly virtuous looking Spengler. "She'd better be an actress by now - we've been sharing the same Dramatic Arts classes for the last three years."  
  
Rapidly recovering, Peter took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them his gaze slid not to the woman but to Spengler, who was by now unable to hold in his broad grin. "I smell a rat," Peter pronounced carefully. "A half blind rat with blond hair. You did this, didn't you?"  
  
"Wait a minute," Chuck exclaimed suddenly, "You mean Janice is the big 'discovery' you was talking about all week? Janice?!" He burst out laughing, ruffling Peter's hair with one hand. "Janice ain't no more a ... a - what did you call her? - 'controlled psion' than I am Gayle Sayers! HA! You done been had, Pete!"  
  
"I realize that now," Peter returned far too calmly, smoothing his hair with his fingers. "And by an expert at that." He closed his eyes again and shuddered. "Do you realize what would have happened if that article had actually published! I would have been the laughing stock of the college!"  
  
"You may be anyway once this gets out!" Chuck piped up, wiping merry tears from his eyes. "You dope!" He went off into whole new peel of laughter, finally having to throw himself into the chair Ray had abandoned. "Miracle! ... Janice!"  
  
By then both Smithers and Spengler were hard pressed to contain their own merriment. Janice was giggling behind her hand, the proud look in her face admitting everything. Egon was even worse; he emitted a little snort hastily suppressed, then another as the laughter worked its way up from his belly. Finally, he could stand it no longer. Egon Spengler, that phlegmatic logical pseudo-Mr. Spock clone, threw back his head and roared.  
  
Peter stood stock still, enduring his companions' amusement for some while. Eventually, reluctant amusement tugged at his own lips, the green eyes beginning to sparkle. "You realize," he began when the laughter had died down to giggles, "that this wouldn't have worked except I didn't expect this out'a Ray. I wouldn't have trusted you on a bet, Spengs!" He cast a look at the door through which Stantz had disappeared mere minutes before. "I didn't suspect him for one second. You got some competition for best actor on campus, Janice. I didn't think that kid had it in him."  
  
"Actually," Egon sniffed, having to pause to blow his nose, "Ray doesn't know anything about this at all. I knew you'd never believe Janice if I introduced her, so...." He waved one hand helplessly. "It was sheer fortuity that she had taken some engineering courses last year."  
  
"Who knew it would land me this gig?" Janice snickered, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Although it was the Signing that really swung the act." Peter cocked an inquiring brow at that. "That's how I could practically read your mind, Pete," she explained, gesturing in Egon's direction. "I learned signing as part of my Special Ed minor. Since Egon also knows sign language...."  
  
"Your fidgeting!" Peter exclaimed, slapping his forehead with his palm. "I wondered why you'd taken up fidgeting all of a sudden. You were feeding her the answers to everything."  
  
"Everything I knew," Egon amended smugly. "We couldn't work some of the gags ..."  
  
"Like Professor McKenna's lunch," Janice interjected.  
  
"... but we could run enough of it to convince you."  
  
"Hook, line and stinker," Peter admitted, supporting himself weakly against his chair. "Man, I can't believe it! I'd actually started to believe in this esp crap! Man, if my dad ever found out...."  
  
Egon sobered at that. "ESP is not crap, Peter, it's a serious field of study. People like Sandy Monroe might be genuine; it's only this one instance that was a con not the whole field."  
  
"Yeah. Right. Sure." Peter laughed without resentment. "Man, I'll give you credit. Using Ray was quite a stroke." He stopped as the amusement fled Janice Smithers' face.  
  
"Uh-oh. Ray," was all she said.  
  
Egon sucked in a breath, the air making a little hissing noise through his teeth. "That's something I do regret. I wish you hadn't led him on, Janice; I'm afraid he's grown quite ... 'attached' to you."  
  
"Attached nothing," Smithers returned glumly. "He's got a world-class crush on me. I could be his first one, too, for all I know. And I did not lead him on - all I did was talk to him. He's such a nice kid, I don't want to hurt him but...."  
  
"No return interest?" Peter asked gently.  
  
Smithers shook her head. "It's not that really. Like I said, he's a real nice kid, but I already have an old man - we've been together over a year."  
  
"No big deal," Weaver said, propping his feet up on Egon's desk and earning himself a glower from the physicist. "We all been used at one time or another. He'll get over it."  
  
Egon swept Weaver's feet to the floor, then stood regarding his clenched fists thoughtfully. "Knowing Ray, that's not as much a certainty as you might think."  
  
"Not for a first crush," Janice put in glumly.  
  
Egon nodded. "Hurting him really wasn't a part of my calculations ..."  
  
"Calculations," Peter snorted.  
  
"... but it's something that's going to have to be handled."  
  
As if on cue the sound of a man running could be heard in the hall. The four exchanged a dismayed look, then Janice rose, smoothing her dress. "Leave it to me, guys. There's something stronger than a crush here and I know just how to use it."  
  
On that cryptic remark Ray burst into the room waving a glossy journal and smiling happily. "Here it is, Janice. Now you'll see it's not like those tabloids you were talking about!"  
  
Janice accepted the magazine and riffled the pages, then tossed it on Peter's desk. "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't," she said coolly. "Doesn't really matter because I am not going to give my permission to publish anything."  
  
Ray stared at her, stunned. "But Peter is counting on you," he protested. "He needs to be able to quote you."  
  
"Yes, I need you, Janice," Peter put in solemnly.  
  
Janice tossed her pretty head. "Well, gee, Peter is just going to have to ride on some one else's coattails, isn't he? Maybe if he was a reputable scientist...."  
  
"Peter is a reputable scientist!" Ray shot back, brown eyes glinting dangerously. "And he doesn't need your coattails to prove it!"  
  
"Gee, thanks, Ray," Peter murmured, cocking a brow. "I didn't know you cared."  
  
Janice sneered so realistically that Egon, Peter and Chuck had to restrain themselves from applauding. "I've seen better scientific method in a delicatessen. No way I'm going to be associated with a bungler."  
  
"Peter is not a bungler!" Really angry now, Ray's lips thinned into a line. "He doesn't need you. He can prove ESP exists without anything you can do. You'll see."  
  
Janice swept by him, headed for the door. "HA!" She paused, surreptitiously winking in Peter's direction. "See you around campus," she offered as a parting shot. Ray slammed the door after her.  
  
"I can't believe it!" he fumed, crossing the office in long strides. "I can't believe she was so mean! I thought she was a nice person!"  
  
"She is," Egon mouthed to Peter behind Ray's back. Even Weaver nodded at that.  
  
"I suppose you're not going to be asking her out?" Peter hazarded, rounding the desk to stand by the upset younger man.  
  
Ray blushed as he always did when the subject came up. "She was awful nasty to you, Peter. I-I wouldn't want to ... to date someone like that." His shoulders slumped slightly though his eyes were still bright. "I thought she was so nice, too."  
  
Peter clapped him on the back. "Don't worry about it, kid. This stuff happens, you know. There'll be another chick along; just like a train, right, Chuck?"  
  
"Better'n trains," Weaver responded amiably. "Trains're usually late; chicks ain't."  
  
Ray sighed. "Yeah. I guess so."  
  
"And I know so." Keeping his hand on Ray's shoulder, Peter urged him gently toward the door, kicking Weaver on the shin as they went by. "Come on, let's go get something to eat, I'm starved."  
  
Weaver lumbered to his feet and followed. Peter shoved Ray into the hall then glanced back at Spengler, who was watching them. "Well?" Peter asked dryly. "Aren't you coming?"  
  
A slow smile broke out on Egon's face, then he nodded and rose. "Love to, Mr. Venkman." He paused to add, "Maybe you'd better cancel the article before you go? For the sake of your reputation?"  
  
Peter glowered. "My reputation will wait until after we eat. And you know what they say about paybacks being a bitch?"  
  
"I have heard," Egon returned warily.  
  
Peter smiled. "Well, man, the bitch is back!"  
  
***  
  
"I'm telling you, Chuck, that guy is driving me nuts!"  
  
That impassioned wail drew no more than a chuckle from Weaver and an unsympathetic slap on the shoulder. "You been saying that for the last couple weeks, Pete," he drawled, steering his friend past a drunken old man soliciting change. "Ah can't figure out why you ain't done something about this Spengler guy yet."  
  
"He's a tricky son of a bitch," Peter groaned, glowering as the old man followed them for several feet. The derelict retreated before that green gaze, muttering something uncomplimentary. Peter scarce heard what; as soon as the man had ceased to be a threat he'd also ceased to exist so far as Peter was concerned. "Problem is, he's two up on me now. Guy's starting to give me a complex. Let's cut over this way, it's a short cut."  
  
The two strolled side-by-side down the filthy alley that connected Lombard Street to Passyunk, stepping delicately around garbage and over two more derelicts en route. It was a warm spring day, breezy and carrying no hint of the rain that had drenched the entire eastern seaboard the evening before. There was no moisture now, only the zephyrs that whistled eternally through the concrete canyons, breezes whipping wantonly through the city like unherded cattle. Peter loved this time of year, the light rainfall tended to wash clean the smog and pollutants from the city that had been his home for most of his life, leaving it fresh and clean and relatively unsullied. It had been his idea to stroll the distance to their favorite bar for a quick game of pool rather than to use Chuck's beat up Nova.  
  
"Hey, how about a little fun over here?" a vaguely feminine voice suggested from behind the shelter of a dumpster.  
  
"She got 'ta look like the Devil himself," Chuck remarked, curiosity drawing him toward the anonymous solicitor. "Sounds more like a young girl, though."  
  
City cautious, Peter snagged his friend's arm and rerouted him for the end of the alley. "No way, pal. Chick may be cool but those buddies of hers sure aren't."  
  
"What buddies?" Chuck asked, nevertheless allowing himself to be steered.  
  
Peter jerked a thumb to the niche cut into one filthy brick wall, then slid his arm around Weaver's broad shoulders. "I'd bet your daddy's next paycheck that she's got a couple of goons stationed in that corner. Any takers?"  
  
Chuck good-naturedly shook his head. "Not me, Yankee. My daddy works hard for his money."  
  
"Yer daddy is a rich old reprobate, who wouldn't even miss the wad," Peter retorted, reaching the slightly less squalid conditions of Passyunk by hopping a pool of stagnant water. "But he's not my problem, Egon is. Guy is two up on me and we're almost at the end of the semester. If we close out with him ahead, my rep'll be shot all over the campus."  
  
"News for you, pard." Weaver wrapped his own arm around Peter's shoulder, under the psychologist's, having to stoop slightly to maintain contact with the shorter man. "After that last little stunt Spengler pulled, you ain't got all that much of a rep to worry about anymore."  
  
Peter's fingers tightened in the material of Weaver's light jacket, his glower returning full force though it was mingled this time with grudging admiration. "Yeah, that jerk. Armstrong still hasn't got off'a my back over that one. I wonder who Spengler had to bribe to get access to my term paper like that?"  
  
Weaver chuckled again and tossed back his head, dislodging a long strand of blond hair from his forehead. "Never saw old Armstrong that pissed over anything like when you turned in your Human Sexuality paper and ... and...." He dissolved into muffled giggles as he always did whenever reminded of Spengler's latest gag.  
  
"It wouldn't have been so bad," Peter remarked mournfully, "but did it have to be typed pages out of Hustler's Forum? I mean, he even set it up in report form, for crying out loud! How much could that have cost him?"  
  
"One o' my daddy's paychecks?" Weaver guessed, impudently mussing Peter's hair with his free hand.  
  
Peter's wail this time was even louder. "I hate that!" he protested, stepping away from Chuck and feeling in his pocket for a comb. "And even worse," he went on, returning to his original subject, "was his using Ray again to set up the last gag with Nancy." He shook his head wonderingly. "That was a low one - even I didn't suspect the kid."  
  
"Ray was in on that thing with Nancy too?" Chuck asked, surprised. "He must be a better actor than I gave him credit for."  
  
Peter ran the comb through his dark locks then restowed it in his breast pocket. "Nah. Far as Ray knew he was just running an errand for Egon. Didn't have any idea what was in that package." He stepped back quickly under Weaver's second pass at his newly styled hair. "Cool that and talk to me about Spengler. He's due."  
  
Weaver stopped to peek in a dark store window, then turned to lean his back against it and cross his arms. Peter waited. "What I don't understand," Weaver began, a puzzled frown marring the ruddy skin of his brow, "is why you don't just get rid of the jerk. That equipment of his could 'disappear' tomorrow, then a friendly warning...." He spread both hands wide. "Poof! No more geek. You could get rid of that kid at the same time."  
  
Peter regarded the blond blankly. "I think you're missing the point here," he said carefully. "I want to 'get' him, not off him."  
  
Chuck stared back. "You goin' soft on the dude or what? I thought you couldn't stand him."  
  
Peter shifted uneasily under his friend's stare, turning to gaze fixedly into the shop's dark interior. "It's not that I'm soft," he protested with rather less conviction than usual. "It's just that ... he ... well, he's two up on me and I can't exactly squash a guy without evening the score first, right?"  
  
Chuck's blue eyes narrowed. "You don't have to even with the Stantz kid. It'd be easy enough to blow him out the door, especially if Casper is using him for back-up. We could...."  
  
"Piss on that," Peter returned instantly. "Leave Ray alone. He's not in this."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Peter's lips tightened with that knowing syllable. He met Chuck's gaze then stepped closer, poking the larger man's chest with one forefinger. "I'm not looking to be friends with either one of those two, okay? I just ... I'd rather do the paybacks my own way. Got it?" ...  
  
Weaver raised both hands palm up in a conciliatory gesture. "Sure. Fine with me, Pete. But if you ask me, you're starting to like those two a little bit more than you wanna let on."  
  
"Nobody asked you," Peter growled dangerously.  
  
Weaver shrugged. "Cool. Let's get on to the Tower before it starts to rain."  
  
They resumed their walk, finally ducking into a dingy looking pool hall cut into a row of storefronts. It was dim inside, and the two repaired to the bar to await their visions' return before attempting their first game.  
  
"So how're you planning on paying Spengler back for the Hustler gig?" Chuck asked after they'd each ordered a beer. "Any notions?"  
  
Peter stroked his chin thoughtfully, a crafty gleam lighting his emerald eyes. "Matter of fact, I do have a hypothesis I've been dying to try out."  
  
"Hypothesis," Chuck snickered.  
  
Peter grinned unrepentantly. "That's what Casper is going to be saying Monday. He's got his EDG ... his Extra-Dimensional Gauge," he explained to the other's puzzled look, "ready for a field test for Monday. Better, he's invited some of the most prominent parapsychologist ..." He pronounced the word as though it tasted bad. "... in to witness it. It'll be his fifth failure in two years."  
  
"You got something planned?" Weaver asked, sipping from his glass.  
  
Peter casually leaned on the immaculate bar and crossed his legs, left ankle resting on his right knee. "Buddy I met in Criminology is scoring me one of the smoke bombs the cops use. You've seen 'em at demonstrations - big black clouds you can't see your own butt through? Then Jefferson...."  
  
"Jefferson from the Chemistry Department?" Chuck interrupted.  
  
"He owed me a favor." Peter tasted his own beer and made a face. "Tastes like weak dishwater. I think he's watering this down again."  
  
"Up yours, Venkman," the bartender called, overhearing.  
  
Peter blew him a kiss and turned back to the blond. "Yeah. So Jefferson has this chemical he used when he did the Graduation last year - you know, the Hexa-something-or-the-other that made everyone in the area smell like rotten eggs for two days?"  
  
"That was Jefferson's idea?" Chuck's grimace was eloquence itself. "I got caught in that one myself. Cost me a date with two cheerleaders I had set up for the weekend."  
  
"It's gonna cost Egon a whole lot more." Peter helped himself to a pretzel and popped it into his mouth. "I got Jefferson to inject the Hexa-whatever into the smoke bomb and rig the whole thing to go off on a spark. All I have to do is hook the trigger into a power supply and wait for someone to turn it on."  
  
Weaver appropriated the pretzels, taking one and twirling it on his thumb. "That part sounds easy enough. Hard part is gonna be keeping Casper from discovering the gig before he turns it on."  
  
"No problem-o." Peter turned to watch a shapely waitress as she bent to accept a tip. Catching Peter's eye as she straightened, the woman gave the handsome young man a smile but did not stop. "What was I saying?" Peter asked, coming to himself with a start.  
  
"No problem-o," Chuck supplied helpfully.  
  
"Oh, right." Peter took another sip of his beer, shaking his head at the offered pretzel bowl. "I talked Egon into going with me to the bash they're having over at Tri Cuppa Brew Sunday night."  
  
"You're taking him after the Mardi Gras shindig?!" Chuck asked, aghast. "And he's going?"  
  
Venkman tossed his head. "You're dear old uncle Peter can be pret-ty persuasive when he wants to be, you know." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I told him I accidentally booked myself two dates for the night and was desperate for someone to take one of the chicks off my hands. He thinks he's doing me a favor."  
  
"Like you couldn't handle a measly two chicks," Chuck snorted disparagingly. "What's he charging you for it?"  
  
Peter shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle. Egon and Ray are going to finish the EDG Sunday morning, then I'm picking Egon up that evening for the party. On my way over I'm going to stop in the lab and take care of the bomb."  
  
"What makes you think he won't be checking it out first thing Monday?" the blond asked, smiling when the waitress 'accidentally' brushed against his thigh.  
  
Peter followed the woman with his eyes, then ignored her to clap his friend on the shoulder. "Remember the Mardi Gras party? I got a few things planned for this Tri Cuppa bash that's gonna make that one look like a Girl Scout tea. Our only problem is whether Spengs is gonna even be conscious the next morning much less in a technical mood." Peter chortled evilly and stared down into the golden depths of his brew. "Picture this, Chucky-boy: a half-dozen eminent scientists from three, maybe four states all gathered in one little lab to find out whether some gizmo is going to pick up the ghost of Albert Einstein."  
  
"Gizmo gets plugged in ..." Chuck put in, blue eyes beginning to sparkle.  
  
"... and BANG! Eau de Pepe le Pew!"  
  
The two burst into laughter at the portrait this recitation invoked. Several minutes later Weaver wiped his eyes on his sleeve, his wide shoulders still shaking with mirth. "If that don't restore your rep on campus, ain't nothing will." He sniffed and fixed Peter with a curious look. "Hey, you gonna get Stantz in it too, or you gonna warn him off beforehand?"  
  
Peter's pause was infinitesimal but not unnoticeable. "Can't risk telling him ahead of time," he said finally, twitching one shoulder in a shrug. "He'd tell Egon like a shot. Ray can't keep a secret to save his life."  
  
"Or maybe he could to save his life?" Weaver suggested meaningfully, the threat plain in his voice.  
  
Peter shot him a glare. "I told you to lay off the kid," he snapped. "And I meant it." He drained his beer in one gulp then replaced the glass and gestured the barkeep over, not meeting Weaver's questioning look. "He's a nice kid, Chuck. Leave him alone."  
  
"But Casper is fair game?" Weaver pursued, letting the subject of Ray drop.  
  
"Casper," Peter reiterated with an sinister chuckle, "is my fair game. And Friday, my game gets called."  
  
*** 


	9. Chapter 9

For Ray Stantz, Sunday was one of the pinnacles of his young life. He and Egon worked side-by-side from early morning, finishing the prototype EDG and ensuring that it would be ready for its official testing on Monday. Butterflies filled his stomach whenever he thought of the eminent specialists who would grace this little lab come the morrow, parapsychologists and occultists from all over the Tri-State area: Dr. Ernst Stubbs, Alfred Wittington, and more - men Ray had only dreamed about meeting much less working with in even his humble technician capacity. And working in association with Ray's primary hero, Dr. Egon Spengler himself...?! Fair brimming with unsuppressible excitement, Ray plunged happily into his work and by late afternoon the fully designed Extra- Dimensional Gauge lay on its stand, assembled and awaiting only to be powered up.  
  
Egon straightened from the half-crouch he'd maintained for hours, mouth twisted with discomfort but sapphire eyes shining with pleasure. "That does it," he rumbled, jabbing at the small of his back. "Once we attach the auxiliary power cord, the EDG will be completed."  
  
Ray grinned at him, clenching his jaw to keep from laughing out loud with sheer delight, the sense of a dramatic moment dawning too strong to be spoiled by mirth. "Can we try it out now?" he asked breathlessly, hoping against hope. "I mean, we could test it out ahead of time - make sure it works before all those scientists get here tomorrow?"  
  
Egon speculatively stroked his chin with one long finger, and it was plain he was giving the bid careful consideration. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I don't think that would be wise," he said regretfully. "My last two designs melted into a puddle at the first application of power. I didn't even have a remnant to autopsy. I think it would be best if we let Dr. Stubbs and the rest examine the unit before switching it on."  
  
Ray's worry must have shown on his face, for Egon smiled and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "If you're worried about the possibility of my failing in front of experts," he began, divining Ray's thoughts exactly, "then put it out of your mind, Raymond. The men I've invited are old colleagues in some form or another, and will find a failure precisely as illuminating as a success - though hardly as illustrious," he added with innate honesty. He glanced at his watch. "Four o'clock. I'd better start preparing for this evening. Peter painted himself into a corner and asked me to help him out."  
  
"Some corner," Ray jeered with a boldness that hadn't been there mere months earlier; somehow, though, with this man he felt comfortable enough even to offer this gentle teasing. "All you have to do is take out one of Peter's girls. I wish I had such corners - Peter's dates are always beautiful and I've never been to one of his parties."  
  
Egon waggled one blond brow suggestively. "Are you suggesting that my doing Peter this favor is anything but a duty?" he accused with mock severity. "You don't think I'm actually going to be enjoying myself?" Ray maintained his knowing silence and Egon grinned. "Perhaps slightly. Actually, it's not a party I'd feel comfortable taking you to - it'll probably be another one of Venkman's get-high parties."  
  
Ray gasped, startled by the concept. "You do drugs?" he exclaimed before he could stop himself. "I know Peter smokes marijuana sometimes but I didn't think...!"  
  
"I do not take drugs," Egon corrected firmly, drawing his lips into a disapproving line. "One must protect one's thinking capacity against such frivolous perils." He relaxed suddenly, looking boyishly sheepish. "Of course, a man takes his relaxations where he can, and even Peter Venkman can be useful in that capacity."  
  
Ray tilted his head, regarding the older man curiously. "Why do you hate Peter?" he asked, voicing a puzzle that had bothered him for months. "Did he ... do something to you?"  
  
Spengler, in the process of doffing his labcoat, turned, a surprised expression on his face. "What makes you think I dislike Peter Venkman?"  
  
Ray bit his lip, already regretting the personal question. But Egon was staring at him expectantly and there was nothing for it now but to explain. "I ... well, I noticed how you and he ... insult each other all the time."  
  
"Many people trade banter," Egon pointed out mildly. "It doesn't mean they hate each other."  
  
Ray waved that away as obvious. "It's not just that. It's ... it's things like ... when...." He racked his mind, searching for some example to explain the subliminal tensions he always felt between the two men, the wary sense of waiting and watching, like two predator cats on the prowl. He suspected there was more to it as well, though except for a few minor jokes he'd been privy to, he'd actually witnessed nothing between the two to confirm his suspicions. He ended up shrugging apologetically, helpless to put his thoughts into words. "I guess I'm wrong," he mumbled in some confusion, snatching up the auxiliary power cord from the box under the window. He plugged it into the EDG, nearly missing the connection in his embarrassed haste. "Sorry. This is ready to go now."  
  
He started as the large hand descended on his shoulder, and looked up into quizzical blue eyes. "It's not as if I hate Peter," Egon admitted thoughtfully, his gaze focused beyond Ray's inquisitive face. "As a matter of fact, I don't even dislike him." There was a touch of cryptic revelation in his expression, as though he were just discovering a previously unsuspected truth. This did nothing but confuse Ray all the more, though this time he held his peace, allowing Spengler to finish with, "Peter and I simply inter-relate on unique levels."  
  
"Oh." Well, that was clear ... like mud.  
  
Egon continued to stand pensively for a moment, his hand resting lightly on Ray's shoulder. Then the planed face cleared and Egon was really looking at Ray again. "Peter's parties aren't nearly as interesting as some of New York's other attractions," the blond said a prapos of nothing. "As a matter of fact, I managed to procure two admissions to next Saturday's symphony at the convention center. Would you like to use one of them?"  
  
It was Ray's turn to stare then, an elated warmth melting away the previous discomfort. Egon Spengler asking him along?! He opened his mouth to accept with pleasure then stopped, remembering in time that a free ticket wasn't the only expense associated with a night at the symphony. It cost money for tuxedos, dinner and the like - money he wouldn't have for a long time to come. He shook his head, the gratitude still lighting his face and heart. "Thanks, Egon, but I can't make it."  
  
Spengler pierced him with a look, those crystal blue eyes seeming to peer into Ray's very soul. He made to speak then changed his mind and settled for clapping Ray on the back instead. "Next time then," he promised. "I'm certain you'll enjoy it far more than one of Peter's revels.  
  
"Speaking of whom," Egon hung his coat neatly on its hook and picked up his sports jacket. "Peter is coming by at six and it's going to take me that long to get dressed. You don't mind cleaning up for our 'company' by yourself?"  
  
Ray smiled, his joy re-blossoming at mention of the distinguished visitors due the next morn. "I don't mind. It'll only take me a few minutes. I'll be out of here before three-thirty."  
  
"Very good. Lock up when you leave." Spengler paused at the door, turning to meet Ray's questioning look frankly. "You did very well, Raymond. I'm pleased with your work."  
  
With this, he nodded solemnly and departed, leaving Ray to finish up with a light step and a very full heart.  
  
By later that evening, Ray's joy had managed to transform itself into the worry Egon had not quite banished earlier. He paced his little dorm room worriedly, his ready imagination conjuring a vast array of disastrous scenarios that could conceivably overtake them the next morning. After having tried twice to turn in for the night, he finally gave up and scrambled into his jeans, having decided to return to the lab and conduct a final check on the EDG's circuits. If nothing else, he could run a low- level current through each component and test them individually for failure. According to Egon, who ought to know, so long as he didn't use full power, there would be no danger of the EDG either switching on or melting down before they were ready.  
  
It was a short walk to the lab, which Ray made absently, his mind focused on the buffer he'd need to regulate the charge. Ten minutes work and he could proceed with his analysis and make sure that everything was ready for Egon's premier the next day.  
  
Reaching Weaver Hall before the cool air had had a chance to properly penetrate his black cotton pullover, Ray used his key and let himself into the building, then made his way to the third floor. He didn't bother with overheads; by now he knew the way intimately and could have walked the route in his sleep. The dim light penetrating from the frosted doors on his either side gave the hall an eerie aspect, but the silent lab beckoned Ray on, its siren song eliciting harmonious reverberations in his soul. This was the life he was meant for, he told himself happily. Research and creation - the staples of existence itself! Was there anything else a man could ask for?  
  
Switching on the lights, Ray got to work immediately, wiring in a basic regulator to the EDG and testing it carefully to ensure that Egon's device could not accidentally switch on. Intent upon his task, he had no opportunity to check the space under the mobile stand holding the EDG, nor reason to believe that he should have done so.  
  
Ray raised his head at the soft chiming just audible through the window. Ten o'clock. Egon and Peter should be at their party by now, probably enjoying themselves hugely. He sighed wistfully, wondering if the time would ever come when he would be invited along on one of the Peter's ventures. Maybe if he was older or less of a - Ray did not shy from the word though it made him cringe - wallflower, Peter would ask him along too. Or maybe not. Ray shook his head, disparaging himself with the thought that there never would be a time when he would have something to contribute to one of Peter's functions. He contented himself with the memory of Egon's proposition of that afternoon and the particular joy the older man's praise had brought to his spirit.  
  
There. The regulator was done and hooked into the EDG. He stood back, surveying his work proudly. Now only a minor current would feed into the system, just enough to let him test for power in each component. Heart beating with a new wave of excitement, he picked up a voltameter and switched the EDG on.  
  
There was no warning - no preshadowing to warn him of impending trouble. The first Ray knew that something was wrong was a brilliant flash followed by the loud BANG! that nearly ruptured his eardrums. The explosion came from low, from ... the EDG! Thick clouds of smoke gushed from beneath the unit, quickly filling the room with an acrid, nauseating stench. Bile rising in his throat to meet the dread already constricting his heart, Ray scurried backwards, raising a hand in a vain attempt at shielding his face. The smoke was cloying, like heavy petroleum, burning his eyes, nose and throat and sapping the oxygen from the air.  
  
Panicked, Ray reeled backwards, his first thought that to escape the room before he choked. He took one step and stopped, remembering in time the EDG. All of Egon's work - his reputation! - was tied up in that single, delicate unit. Whatever happened, he had to unplug it before irreparable harm could be done! Ray could see nothing in the dense atmosphere, so he dropped to his knees, proceeding by touch alone. He coughed harshly, dimly aware that he should get out of the room immediately - it was impossible to breathe and his chest was beginning to hurt. But Egon's EDG had priority - unplugging it offered the only hope he had of preventing all of Egon's work from going up in flames.  
  
After over a minute's search he located the auxiliary power cord, tracing it with his fingers to the wall plug. Offering a little prayer of thanks, he wrapped his fingers around it prepared to tug it free, unable in the dark to make out the exposed copper wiring peeking through what would later be diagnosed as the unfortunate gnawings of a little gray mouse.  
  
Lightning shot into Ray's hand, a liquid fire that traced every nerve ending upward, searing a path from his arm into his chest. Ray's body convulsed suddenly, the low scream that forced itself between his lips cutting off suddenly as his throat squeezed shut. The agony endured for what seemed like hours but was in reality only seconds before the main circuit breakers cut in, shutting off power for over half the building. What have I done? Ray thought, horrified. Then he was aware only of the sudden cessation of both cognizance and pain as the world stopped.  
  
***  
  
Peter picked up a properly-dressed Egon promptly at six, in the company of two exquisitely beautiful women. Both were stewardesses Peter had met on one of his infrequent trips to Chicago to visit his mother and her family, and with whom Peter had kept in sporadic touch over the years. Brigette, a cool brunette of thirty, was tall and slim, with smooth, shoulder length hair and the type of eyes that had been described in literature throughout the ages as 'bedroom.' She accepted Egon's arm with a sultry smile, and if his gaze traveled more than once the length of her gracefully draped black dress, no one blamed him in the slightest.  
  
Peter's date, Holly, was Brigette's opposite-but-equal in every way. Shorter than her friend and as fair as Egon, she filled her tight slacks and halter top in ways that could not help but elevate a man's hormone levels. Full busted and wide-hipped, Holly's effervescent personality seemed to dip whatever room she was in with liquid sunshine.  
  
Dinner was filled with pleasant if one sided chit-chat at first, punctuated occasionally by Egon's distrustful glances from Brigette to Peter, as if he were still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Peter beamed innocuously back and soon Egon began to relax and join in, his dry wit adding a facet of humor to the conversation that had been missing previously.  
  
In this way the quartet approached the building housing the Phi Kappa Nu fraternity, the elegant females and handsome men causing no little stir in the already gathered company. Egon scanned the buffet suspiciously, surprised to find that the notorious "Tri Cuppa Brew" fraternity was hosting nothing more menacing than a traditional wine-and-cheese party. He was also comforted - and not a little bit pleased - by Brigette's curt denial of anything having to do with drugs or pot. As neither she nor Holly indulged in anything more potent than the unopened red wine chilling in the icebucket, and Peter had proclaimed himself 'clean' for the evening, Egon relaxed even further, accepting the goblet his date proffered and falling into the swing of the party atmosphere with real enjoyment.  
  
Peter watched him through occasionally narrowed eyes whenever Egon was not looking. His purpose to muddle the blond's perceptions had not altered, necessary as it was for the fulfillment of his grand plan. He'd deliberately chosen Brigette as Egon's consort for the evening; it was evidenced that she did not use narcotics; what Peter did not mention was that he'd been out drinking with Brigette on several occasions and the woman's capacity for alcohol fair rivaled a Welshman's. Once, when they had been doing shots for several hours, she had had to practically carry the comatose Peter home and roll him into his bed; she'd then returned to the party and continued drinking until the next morning, afterwards showing no more adverse effects than a mild headache and a bad case of thirst.  
  
Egon, being the gentleman he was, would not refuse to share a glass with a beautiful woman and that in itself was to be his undoing. Peter snickered as he watched Egon uncork the first bottle and pour Brigette a drink. "By midnight," he remarked to Chuck as an aside, "the big blond geek won't care if he's got an EDG much less whether the blasted thing works!"  
  
Nine o'clock found Peter in a corner with Chuck Weaver and his steady, Rhoda, their conversation centered around Rhoda's upcoming graduation and her and Chuck's plans for the summer.  
  
"... since I'm from Boston anyway," the petite brunette was saying, leaning comfortably against the wall. "That way Chuck can still come up on weekends even if he's working nights."  
  
"Might be nights and weekends," Weaver said, popping the top of a Miller. "Don't know how we're going to spend any time together come summer."  
  
"There's a lot to be said for long vacations," Peter remarked, smiling when Holly slipped quietly up beside him. "Find the bathroom okay, babe?"  
  
She nodded, and poked playfully tickled his ribs through his open shirt. "Had to go through an obstacle course to get there. I'd forgotten how obnoxious college students could be."  
  
"That's what you get for maturing," Peter murmured, getting a giggle and another poke for his trouble.  
  
"That's what Brigette always says," Holly returned, taking Peter's scotch out of his hand and taking a sip. "Doesn't stop either one of us from attending these stupid things."  
  
Peter opened his mouth to point out several more reasons why Holly might attend one of these frat parties, his own looks and charm at the top of the list, when a small hand poked him in the side. He turned, finding himself on a level with a pair of clear blue eyes peeking out from under a fringe of straight blonde hair. "Hi, Sandy," he hailed the student, the thought that she wouldn't be his student much longer adding an extra degree of warmth to the greeting. "Didn't know you were going to be here tonight."  
  
Sandy tossed a long strand of hair back over her shoulder. "I hadn't planned to come - had to break a date to make it. I was hoping to see you here, though."  
  
Standing at Peter's right, Holly cleared her throat loudly, and Peter hastened to make the introduction. "Holly, this is Sandy Monroe. Sandy is one of my students." Oil on the waters, Peter thought smugly.  
  
The women nodded, though the look they exchanged was that of two hyenas meeting over a kill. "Can I talk to you a minute, Pete?" Sandy asked, ignoring Holly after that brief contact. "It's important."  
  
Peter heard the soft hiss of Holly's breath being sucked through her teeth and nearly refused; after all, Sandy was scheduled for some distant future rendezvous whereas Holly was of the here and now. Then he looked into Sandy's face, not finding the flirtation he'd expected but rather a curious worry. He nodded. "I'll only be a minute," he told Holly, forcing himself to ignore the ire in her eyes.  
  
He allowed Sandy to lead him several feet away, her face downcast and thoughtful. "Listen, Pete, sorry about your date. I just...."  
  
"'S'okay," he assured her, feeling Holly's eyes boring into the small of his back. "What's on your mind?"  
  
She hesitated, biting her full lower lip. When she looked up Peter got the impression that she was taking some kind of a plunge. "I took a nap this evening," she said softly. "I dreamed about you."  
  
Peter cleared his throat, the erotic fantasies she'd revealed during their sessions bringing color to his cheeks, the more so considering Holly's proximity. "That's ... uh ... really great," he began uncomfortably, "but...."  
  
Sandy rolled her eyes, her expression going from worry to annoyance in an instant. "Not that kind of a dream," she snapped, stamping her foot. "The other kind."  
  
Peter blanked, then his eyes widened in astonishment. "You mean a...?"  
  
"Psionic dream? Maybe." Blue eyes bored into Peter's own, demanding belief. "It wasn't all that clear," she began in a hesitant voice. "I saw you ... then I didn't see you but I knew it had something to do with you. Then I saw a man wandering in a cloud but I couldn't tell where it was."  
  
"That's not exactly an earth shaking revelation," Peter returned, raising his glass to his lips. "I mean, esper or not, a man walking in a cloud isn't the most dangerous thing I've ever heard."  
  
Sandy hesitated again, her very reticence raising the hackles on Peter's neck. "It wasn't so much that, that scared me," she went on in a low voice. "It was just ... that the cloud ... hurt ... or something. At least, I didn't like it." Peter froze, not retreating when she stepped closer and laid a small hand on his arm. "It might be nothing - probably is nothing, but I wanted you to know."  
  
He patted her hand absently, his brows bisected by only a thin line. "Thanks, Sandy, I'll keep it in mind."  
  
She nodded doubtfully and headed for the bar, leaving Peter to stare at her retreating back. The scenario she'd painted was a familiar one, one that had kept Peter amused for nearly a full week. Egon wrapped in a smelly black cloud was precisely what Peter did have in store for the unsuspecting physicist and that for the morrow, possibly Peter's masterpiece in their two-man battle of wits.  
  
But what had Sandy meant when she said the cloud hurt? The smoke bomb was only dangerous if someone remained in the enclosed room for long periods, and even a fool would be forced to vacate within seconds if only by the nauseating stench of Jefferson's chemical. Was there anything about his forthcoming jest that could hurt?  
  
Besides.... The cloud symbolism was a common one in the dream state, and represented a variety of aspirations and desires to any one individual, most often that of something little understood or unobtainable. Sandy had been a test subject with the sleep research team for many months now, and this had hardly been the first time she'd dreamed about Peter Venkman. Undoubtedly this was simply another example of the girl's interest in him as a man.  
  
Peter returned to his glowering date but only half his mind was on the lame explanation he offered her for his seeming desertion. Sandy's warning nagged at him consistently, the coincidence too large to ignore completely. A cloud could represent anything in Sandy's subconscious. Yet, Sandy had confessed some leaning toward esper abilities. Then again, Peter wasn't sure he even believed in esper abilities, especially after that little experience with Janice Smithers.  
  
The cloud hurt, Sandy had said; that could mean anything, from a bee sting to near death. Peter shuddered, already ruing the cleverness which had made him set up the smoke bomb in the lab, not even aware that he was giving Sandy's warning more credence than it actually warranted. What if something went wrong? was the cry that echoed within his skull. What if the substance Jefferson had injected into the mechanism reacted chemically with the smoke? What if something happened to Egon because of it? And not just Egon - Sandy had said she'd seen a man in the cloud; what if that man was Ray? Or someone else?  
  
Peter sighed heavily, abandoning his great joke with honest disappointment. Better get over to the lab and disconnect the blasted thing or he'd end up worrying himself into a nervous wreck. Some instinct reared its head then, urging Peter to make sure Ray was home at least.  
  
"Got to make a phone call," he mumbled, interrupting Chuck's recitation on the glories of Texas in the spring. "Be right back." He ignored Holly's renewed glare and found the frat phone, dialing the number of Ray's dorm from memory. It was picked up by a sleepy-sounding male, who volunteered after much urging and one serious threat, to knock on Ray's door and get him downstairs.  
  
Peter tapped his foot impatiently while he waited, downing the entire glass of scotch in one gulp. Finally, the sleepy student returned to the line.  
  
"No one's there," he grumbled nastily. "You wanna leave a message or something?"  
  
Peter breathed a negative and hung up, chill fingers stroking his spine. Ray could be anywhere, he told himself, visiting friends - even in the shower. The fact that he wasn't in his room on a Sunday night meant nothing at all....  
  
Peter returned to the corner and took Holly by the shoulders. "Got to make a run," he told her regretfully. "I'll be back in about an hour."  
  
Holly shrugged away from his touch; she stood back to regard him balefully. "You could have just invited her instead of me in the first place," she shot coldly, "and saved me the trouble of showing up at all."  
  
Peter opened his hands wide in a placating gesture he knew wouldn't work even before he made it. "Don't be like that, babe," he pleaded. "It's business. Honest."  
  
"Yeah. Business," Holly snapped, deliberately turning her back.  
  
Peter sighed and let his hands fall to his sides. "Catch you on the rebound," he told Chuck, turning on his heel.  
  
Peter headed for the door, literally running into Egon and Brigette en route. The two were holding newly filled wine glasses, and Egon's eyes were just starting to dull behind his frames. Peter automatically glanced at his watch - ten o'clock. Looks like his prediction of a sloshed Egon by midnight was right on the money.  
  
"Going somewhere, Peter?" the blond asked, placing a hand on Venkman's arm as he passed. "Is something wrong?"  
  
Peter stopped, an impulse he would never afterward be able to explain drawing his eyes to the blue ones three inches above. "If Ray isn't in his dorm tonight, then where would he most likely have gone?"  
  
Egon frowned at the seeming non sequitur, one lean shoulder twitching. "Probably back to the lab. He's been excited over the EDG test and might have wanted to repeat some of this afternoon's checks. Why do you ask?"  
  
Peter braced his shoulders, his jaw jutting truculently but his voice without challenge. "I may need you," he said, shocking himself with his honestly. "Come with me."  
  
He waited, prepared for the refusal, and was surprised when Egon immediately unwrapped Brigette's arm from his own and gave her a pat. "I'll be back soon," the blond said, handing his glass across. "Keep this on ice for me."  
  
She smiled but made no reply. Knowing Brigette, Peter thought wickedly, she probably wouldn't notice they'd left at all so long as there was a steady liquor supply at hand.  
  
The two men emerged from the frat house, Egon content to allow Peter to set the rapid pace. "Would you like to tell me where we're going?" he asked, his jacket flapping behind him in the light breeze. "I generally require a reason for leaving a beautiful woman before I walk out on her."  
  
Peter, already starting to puff slightly nevertheless hastened his pace, shivering slightly in the cooling air. "Possibility that there's trouble at the lab. If Ray went back there he might be in over his head."  
  
Egon skidded to a halt, the full moon revealing an almost ludicrous expression of befuddlement. "Trouble at my lab?" he demanded, snagging Peter's white sleeve. "What kind of trouble? What happened to Ray?"  
  
Peter yanked himself free, fighting the urge to answer that imperious request for information. Even Egon might not accept the warning as such, and Peter preferred to make sure any danger was dealt with before facing the embarrassment he knew was coming. "I'll explain later," he bellowed, shoving hard. "Just come on!"  
  
Something in Peter's face must have convinced the blond, for Egon's protests died away immediately. Shoulder to shoulder the two men thundered across the silent campus on a journey toward the unknown.  
  
*** 


	10. Chapter 10

The campus grounds were deserted in the vicinity of Weaver Hall, the only outward sign of habitation was a lighted window on the third floor. Egon and Peter broke through the trees bordering the building, stopping as if by mutual consent to stare at that single, suddenly ominous telltale.  
  
"I was right," Egon gasped, winded by the jog. "Ray did come back to the lab." A shadowy figure briefly blocked the light, and Egon cast Peter a suspicious look from the corner of one eye. "That is Ray, isn't it?"  
  
Peter took a long, deep breath, expanding his chest to the full before releasing it. "I hope not," he said sincerely. "Kid might be in for a nasty surprise if it is."  
  
Egon's suspicious look deepened. He made to speak, the words aborted by the brilliant flash that appeared briefly in the window, limning the darker manshape even against the fluorescents. Moments later thick smoke billowed upward, filling the room within seconds, the backlighting coloring it a dusky gray. It obscured the unidentified figure immediately; another moment and the room dissolved into darkness.  
  
Peter stared, an expression of frozen horror twisting his face into a rictus. "The lights," he breathed. "Sandy was right!"  
  
"Sandy? Sandy who?" Egon demanded, imitating Peter's instant rush toward the building. He reached the front door just in time to catch Peter, who had bounced off the heavy security metal like a toy.  
  
"Got your key?" Peter called, pulling out of Egon's arms. He patted his light slacks apologetically. "No room."  
  
Egon nodded and searched his suit jacket, first one pocket and then the next until locating the neat bunch he carried. He fumbled with the lock in the dark, an eternity of seconds passing while he tried to locate the correct key.  
  
"Hurry!" Peter hissed, clenching his teeth against the screech of metal on metal.  
  
"I am hurrying," Egon snapped back, trying another key. "Sandy who? What's going on up there?"  
  
Peter slammed a fist into the door, the loud bang startling Egon into dropping his ring. He cursed and they both bent to retrieve them, the dark hindering the search.  
  
"Found 'em," Peter said, pressing the keys back into Egon's hand. "Hurry."  
  
"I am hurrying," Egon repeated, again applying himself to the lock. "What am I walking into?"  
  
"Smoke bomb," Peter ground out, this time clenching his fist rather than using it. "It's attached to the EDG."  
  
Egon stopped his work and turned to shoot Peter a reproachful look. "Timed to go off during my demonstration tomorrow, no doubt. Not nice, Peter."  
  
Venkman slapped him on the arm. "Keys!" Egon hesitated then returned to his task, a low clanking adequate testimony to his haste. Peter tapped his foot impatiently. "Sandy Monroe. Remember her?"  
  
"The blonde who claimed esper abilities?"  
  
Peter nodded invisibly in the darkness. "She dreamed about smoke - said it hurt. And with Ray up there...."  
  
"Could be trouble," Spengler agreed grimly. Spurred on to greater speed, he inserted the last key and twisted it. "It's open!" But Peter was already ahead of him, dashing down the hall and then up the staircase three at a time, Egon's longer legs closing the distance between them by the time they'd hit the top.  
  
They reached the third floor and turned down the well-remembered corridor, Egon slapping the first wall switch he came in contact with. A single bulb lit behind them, none in front. "Circuit breakers must have tripped on this side of the building," he yelled. He clapped a hand across his mouth, nearly slamming into Peter's back as the psychologist stopped abruptly. "What is that stench?"  
  
By then they'd reached the lab, the gilt 14 barely visible in the gloom. "Door's still closed," Peter said, ignoring Spengler's question; his pale face and white shirt made him resemble some type of specter hovering in the shadow. "Ray must still be in there." He threw open the door, unintentionally reeling backward away from the cloud of noxious, stinging vapor that gushed forth, enveloping both himself and Egon instantly. "Stuff's worse than I thought," he gagged, Egon doing likewise in the rear.  
  
Hesitating long enough to draw in a lungfull of relatively pure air, Peter plunged into the murky lab. Egon, only a step behind, pulled his white handkerchief out of his breast pocket, slapping it across his nose and mouth. "Still no power," he reported, poking vainly at the wall switch before dropping into a crouch.  
  
Peter did not wait - by memory alone he found his way through the shrouded room, snagging his desk chair as he went by. One hand stretched out straight before him, he reached the far side without happenstance, and located the closed window he'd watched from outside.  
  
Forced by this time to take a breath, he doubled over with the first in a series of harsh coughs; a sound of retching came from close behind, half mingled with Egon's, "The smell is nauseating."  
  
Peter straightened and grasped the chair firmly. "Stay clear!" he yelled Egon's way, then he brought the chair up and around in a powerful two- handed swing that parted the thick cloud like molasses. Chair impacted window with enough kinetic potential to shatter the glass, sending it in a great sparkling arc outwards to the soft grass below.  
  
The combination of air exiting the window and draught from the open labdoor began to work its magic on the atmosphere; the smoke lightened instantly, though being heavier than air it did not entirely dissipate, and this despite the fact that the bomb continued to pump additional poisons from its unseen bed. Peter drew a shallow breath and croaked, "Did you find him?"  
  
"No," came the equally choked reply. Egon continued his crawling search, scrambling around furniture and across paraphernalia until his grasping fingers encountered something warm and infinitely familiar. "Wait! Here he is." He trailed up the still body until he could touch the slack features and closed eyes. "He's unconscious. Help me, Peter."  
  
Venkman followed the sound of the deep bass, working his way through the still-thick cloud. Eyes streaming, it was several seconds before he located his target and that only when he'd tripped over Ray's sprawled leg. He dropped to his knees, groping blindly until he'd found Egon's hand. He gave it a squeeze, then slid his own hands under Ray's shoulders. "Let's get him out of here," he said, lifting. "There's no oxygen."  
  
Spengler wrapped his arms around both of Ray's jeans-clad legs and the two lifted in unison, carrying him swiftly toward the now barely seen door. Not stopping once they'd exited the room, they continued on toward that single burning bulb at the end of the hall, two moths seeking the devouring flame.  
  
"Put him down," Egon gasped once they'd reached its glowing halo. He waited until Peter had nodded, then carefully deposited Ray's legs on the floor. Peter, rather than releasing Ray entirely, simply allowed his own legs to collapse under him and sank to the ground, supporting Ray half-on, half-off of his lap. "Is he-is he alive?" he gasped, real fear widening his green eyes.  
  
Ray's face was dark smudged from the smoke; beneath that veneer his skin was chalk. Egon faltered a single second before pressing two fingers against the boy's throat. "I have a pulse," he reported in a hushed voice. "It's weak and I don't think he's breathing."  
  
Peter shook the limp form roughly, letting it drape back over his knee until he was cradling Ray's lolling head in one hand. "You'd better breathe," he snarled, giving Ray's cheek a sharp slap. "Blast you, kid, wake up!"  
  
Egon took Ray's face in both hands, passing his thumb across Ray's mouth. "I'd better breathe for him," he said. He bent lower then straightened, resting one hand lightly on the black cotton shirt. "Wait a minute; I thought I heard...."  
  
Ray uttered a little sigh then, a soft barely audible sound that brought both Egon and Peter erect. "You did hear...." Peter began, face lighting with hope. The sigh was followed by a weak cough, then another, Ray's chest expanding slightly under Egon's hand. "Come on, kid," Peter urged, unconsciously holding his own breath. "You can do it."  
  
As if he'd heard the admonition, Ray's coughing grew harsher, his lungs striving desperately to rid themselves of the fumes. Raspy choking breaths tore at the young man, and Peter allowed him to roll on his side, pillowing the auburn head on his knee. "Take it easy, buddy," he soothed, patting Ray's back awkwardly. "You're gonna be fine."  
  
Egon, face tight with anger, released Ray, using one hand to smooth back the sweat dampened auburn hair from his young friend's face. After a long, tense silence, he looked up, eyes flashing sapphire fire behind his lenses. "He will be fine," he growled, shooting Peter a reproachful glare. "Fortunately for you. If we'd arrived only seconds later...."  
  
Peter dropped his eyes guiltily, his reply arrested when Ray lifted his head from Peter's knee to peer around blearily. "What-what happened?".  
  
Egon's glare faded at once. He essayed a calm smile, allowing his hand to continue resting lightly on the back of Ray's neck. "Lie still, Raymond, everything is all right now."  
  
Ray twisted slightly, dazed eyes taking in his surroundings in a long, slow scan. Then he shook his head wearily, dropping it back to Peter's knee as if it were too heavy on his shoulders. "I did ... something wrong," he panted, squeezing his lids shut. "The ... EDG...."  
  
A scowl creased Peter's brow at that. "Don't worry about the EDG," he said comfortingly. "It's fine. It's you we were worried about. We were afraid we were gonna lose you."  
  
"Couldn't breathe," Ray mumbled, his already ashen face turning a shade whiter. "Smoke...."  
  
"Yes, the smoke," Egon repeated, turning a speculative look on a suddenly squirming Peter. "Apparently, that smoke combined with the ... whatever it was, was heavy enough to deplete the oxygen, inducing suffocation."  
  
"It wasn't supposed to work that way!" Peter defended himself rather more vehemently than he'd intended and immediately quieted his tone. "I figured any fool would leave the room once he got a whiff of the stink." Reminded, his nostrils flared as he took a deeper breath, gagging slightly at the odor rising from his, Egon's and Ray's clothes. "Oh, yuck. That stuff really is rancid." He tapped Ray's head with one hand, bending a little closer to the boy's ear. "Why didn't you get out, Ray?" he asked more gently. "You could have died in there. And blast Jefferson anyway," he added beneath his breath.  
  
Stantz struggled to sit and Peter helped him up, supporting him with an arm around his shoulders. Coughing again, Ray raised his head, blearily seeking Egon's face then turning away, ashamed. "The ... I wanted to save the ... EDG. Tried to unplug it." He lifted his right hand, turning it over; a long red welt creased the palm, livid even in the dim light. "Something burned."  
  
"Must have been a short," Egon said thoughtfully, lifting Ray's hand and examining it closely. "That's what tripped the breakers. You probably took quite a jolt if the wires were exposed."  
  
Ray reclaimed his hand, cradling it in his lap. He stared at it intently, refusing to meet his companions' inquiring gazes at all. "I'm sorry. I think I ruined...." He choked off again, unable to continue.  
  
Egon patted him kindly. "The only thing that matters is that you're all right, Raymond. That stunt could have been fatal." He turned to Peter, his face taut with renewed anger but there was something else there, too - a look of deep hurt. "It wasn't supposed to be Ray who got caught in there, was it?" he said quietly. "It was supposed to be me. Do you ... could you really hate me badly enough to want to kill me?"  
  
Flustered, and sagging himself with reaction, Peter nevertheless looked up directly into those tearing, crystal blue, betrayed eyes. "It wasn't meant to be dangerous at all," he explained in a subdued tone. "All it was supposed to do was to stink the room up."  
  
"In front of Dr. Stubbs and Dr. Wittington," Egon growled, understanding blossoming in his face. "They ... that could have ruined my professional reputation completely!"  
  
"Like you nearly did mine!" Peter snapped back. "If that article on Janice Smithers had published, I'd've been SOL with the psychological community permanently."  
  
Egon looked abashed at the possibility. He dipped his head, conceding the point. "It looks like we both allowed ourselves to be carried away with this competition," he admitted sadly. "I'm sorry."  
  
Ray, still not having achieved a point where he comprehended his comrades' dialogue, tugged at Egon's sleeve, his expression so disconsolate as to make Peter automatically pull him closer. "I'm sorry," he repeated between renewed coughs. "I don't know what I did...."  
  
It was Peter who answered, regret shining in his reddened eyes. "You didn't do anything at all, Ray," he said, brushing the knuckles of his left hand against Ray's jaw. "There's nothing wrong with the EDG. It was all a joke - my joke on Egon."  
  
Ray blinked, comprehension slowly working its way through his befuddled brain. "A joke?" he repeated stupidly. "That was a joke?"  
  
Peter nodded sadly. "Not a very good one, kid. I'm sorry you got caught in it."  
  
"The EDG is okay?" Peter nodded again and Ray dredged up a feeble but highly relieved smile. He shut his eyes, leaning sideways against Peter's chest. "'S'okay, then" he mumbled weakly. "No harm done."  
  
"This time," Egon muttered severely, not in as forgiving a mood as his young assistant.  
  
Peter grew quiet for a long moment, his stare riveted on Ray's streaked face. Then he looked up, meeting Egon's expectant countenance frankly. "I don't hate you, Spengs," he said and it was plain what the confession cost him in the heightened color in his cheeks. "I didn't mean to hurt you."  
  
The look of betrayal slowly left Egon's blue eyes, the merest touch of warmth replacing it. "I know that," he returned sincerely. "And I'm glad. But don't think this means you're off the hook, Venkman. I will have my revenge."  
  
Peter relaxed, a smile gracing the very corners of his lips. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He turned back to Ray, still encircled in one arm. "Hey, kid, we got ta' get you to the hospital. Think you can walk?"  
  
Brown eyes snapped open at once. "I don't need a hospital," he protested, his voice little better than a low rasp. "I'm okay. Really." He straightened manfully but the effect was spoiled by another round of coughing though less harsh than before.  
  
Peter waited until the spell had passed, then slid his arms around Ray's chest and with Egon's help pulled the boy to his feet. "I think you're okay, too, but there's no sense taking any chances. We'll have you checked out ... or I will." He shot a questioning glance Egon's way. "If you want to get back to Brigette...?"  
  
Egon smiled in return and shook his head. "Another hour at the bar and Brigette won't remember I was even there." He frowned suspiciously in Peter's direction. "I assume you set me up with her to prevent my being able to check the EDG before the test time; what I haven't been able to figure out is how you thought she could accomplish this. I'm assuming she was being truthful when she said she doesn't take drugs?"  
  
"Of course Brigette doesn't take drugs," Peter returned piously, sticking his tongue in his cheek. "Not a one. Of course, getting her stoned is the only way she'd let you near her right about now. Hate to tell you this, old buddy, but you're pretty rank."  
  
Egon sniffed himself then wrinkled his nose, the action dislodging his glasses slightly. He pushed them back up with a forefinger, sighing loudly. "I hope Holly sees that she gets home safely."  
  
"Holly's been doing that for years." Peter slipped one of Ray's arms over his shoulder, Egon doing likewise on the other side. "Ready to go, kid?" he asked.  
  
Ray nodded blankly and took a deep breath, then sneezed. "What is it that smells so bad?" he muttered, taking another sniff.  
  
Peter exchanged a chagrined look with Spengler, then chuckled. "'Fraid that's us, pal. Don't worry though - it wears off. Eventually."  
  
"Eventually." Egon sighed. "And I do have that demonstration to perform tomorrow. I really owe you for this one, Mr. Venkman."  
  
"And I've a feeling you'll be paying me off, Dr. Spengler," Peter sighed, letting the door close behind them, "for a long time to come."  
  
***  
  
Venkman cradled the telephone to his left ear and fumbled in his wallet for a card. "... I said Monroe. M-o-n-r-o-e. Uh-huh. Yeah, I've got a Visa right here."  
  
He was reading off a series of numerals when Egon Spengler entered. A stale aroma followed the big blond into the room, not entirely attributable to the sacks of food he carried in both arms. It mingled unpleasantly with the like odor already permeating the lab, only barely diluted by the gusts of air wafting through the plastic-covered window.  
  
"No," Peter went on, nodding benignly as Egon deposited two of the sacks in front of him, reserving the remaining two for himself. "One dozen is cool. ... Yeah, so long." He hung up the receiver and pulled the white bags closer, opening the tops and breathing deeply. "Ahhh, McDonalds. Nothing like it." He grimaced and rubbed his abdomen, adding, "And I do mean nothing, Lord love my stomach lining."  
  
"Roses?" Egon hazarded, gesturing vaguely to the telephone with an unopened straw. "For Sandy?"  
  
Peter, giving up on inhaling his food, dumped the contents of one bag out onto his desk, sorting through a Big Mac and assorted french fries. He opened one of the sandwiches and sat regarding it distrustfully before tearing open the second bag and pulling out a soda. "Just greasing the way for next semester." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "One heck of a body on that chick."  
  
Not having a dispute to find with that remark, Egon carefully pushed aside a slender, typed report and opened his own food. He took a bite of his fish fillet then had to snatch for a napkin when tartar sauce dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. "Nonetheless," he went on, chewing, "you do believe her warning last night was a legitimate psionic episode? A warning of impending disaster?"  
  
Peter snorted at the melodramatic phrasing, the effect spoiled by the coke he was trying to swallow. He spent some few minutes sputtering before he could breathe again. "Lemme tell you, Spengs," he said, abandoning the coke for his sandwich. "People walking around in clouds is probably one of the most common nocturnal manifestations in existence. The odds against Sandy having that particular dream last evening are really not that extreme. And she has been known to dream about me ..." Egon cleared his throat delicately, and Peter grinned. "... rather more often than not. Put that all together and we come up leaning more toward a really drastic coincidence than paranatural whatever."  
  
"But it doesn't rule out the paranatural," Egon pointed out, popping a french fry in his mouth. "Mathematically, coincidence is a rarer occurrence than most people assume. And the fact that coincidence is possible doesn't mean it's the only explanation available to us."  
  
Venkman shrugged, offering both hands palms up and nearly dropping his sandwich for his trouble. "Tell you the truth, man, it doesn't really matter to me either way. Psionics or sheer, erotic fantasy, Sandy's warning saved a life last night. That's why the flowers."  
  
"She saved Ray's life last night," Egon added quietly, studying his fingernails.  
  
Peter shuddered, an uneasy expression touching his lean features before vanishing. "If anything had happened to that kid...."  
  
"It didn't." Spengler's deep voice was firm, comforting by its very surity. "Nothing happened to Ray. The hospital only wanted to keep him overnight for observation. He's fine."  
  
"Thanks to Sandy." Peter stared at his wooden desktop for long seconds. "Coincidence," he muttered. "But what if...?"  
  
"What if?" Egon removed his glasses, exposing twinkling blue eyes. "That's the question that has driven me on for years, Peter. I've asked myself that a hundred times, and each time I do it drives me back to the laboratory and my studies." He replaced his glasses though his focus was still very far away. "What if there are other realities - an entire multiverse - standing parallel to our own? What if the aliens inhabiting those realities have the capacity to cross over the dimensional nexus, to visit us or affect us in some way? What if fables and legend are nothing more than the ancient peoples' way of explaining such visits as best they could?"  
  
"Legends like ghosts and the Boogyman?" Peter inquired with mild derision.  
  
The physicist nodded, a curious tenseness crossing his face at the reference. "Those and a myriad other incidents. That is my theory, yes."  
  
Peter paused, the sounds of mastication narrowing down to Egon's square jaw. "Speaking of ghosties," he asked innocently, "how did your demonstration go this morning?"  
  
That won him a sharp, disgusted look. Egon raised his arm, sniffing delicately at his pink sleeve. "About as you might have expected," he snapped. "Professor Wittington nearly threw up when he walked into the room. How long is this stench going to persist? I've taken four showers since last night."  
  
"Couple days," the brunette said, biting back a smile. "We just got'ta live with it 'til Wednesday or Thursday."  
  
"Nuts."  
  
Peter waited but as that distinctly unilluminating statement was all that was forthcoming for some minutes, he finally cleared his throat and took the plunge. "And your doohickey?" he asked with more courage than good sense.  
  
The blond's disgust transmuted into a glare, downshifting instantly into a resigned grimace. "See for yourself," he grumbled, jerking his head toward the pile of half-melted plastic and metal occupying the space where the EDG had stood twenty-four hours earlier. "The circuits went critical twenty seconds after being activated. Meltdown took place...." He stopped, his technical recitation ending with, "Blasted thing didn't register our three dimensions much less the next. Looks like I start again from scratch."  
  
"Too bad, pal." The psychologist stuffed the last of his Big Mac into his mouth while staring at the twisted mass of the former EDG meditatively. "Wonder if the human brain is constrained by our three dimensions?" he wondered allowed. "If it operates outside our normal reality, then the time-space altering effects of those extra dimensions you're studying could have something to do with esper abilities ... alleged esper abilities," he amended with an embarrassed look at the blond, "like precognition and telepathy."  
  
Spengler froze, dawning revelation in his face. "You're implying that the mind could be operating on or through some form of extra-dimensional conduit?" Peter shrugged and Egon scratched at his cheek absently. "Interesting hypothesis. If there is a connection, then any psycho-kinetic energies the brain emits could be similar to if not identical with those put forth by extra-terrain entities. By finding out how to measure the former, we could theoretically deduce the latter as well." He nodded slowly. "Very interesting. At least we'd have some form of study material - espers may not be common, but they're not unknown, either. One connection could explain so many of the old legends!"  
  
Peter tossed his head. "I don't know about that part. I'm reasonably certain that all of your legends and sightings can be explained by using normal psychological procedure." He ticked off several points on his catsup-stained fingers. "Mass hysteria, hypnosis, drug use, the effect of natural phenomena on the primitive mind...."  
  
"You have no proof of that." A bell clanged in the hall, obviously the signal, judging by the thunderous rush that ensued, for a buffalo stampede. Egon waited for it to pass before continuing. "All you have at this point is conjecture and speculation that such sightings can be explained away."  
  
"Conjecture is all you have," the psychologist volleyed immediately, "that they can't be."  
  
Egon inclined his head, acknowledging the hit. "Touche. However, I'm striving to prove my conjecture. You could do the same?" He raised one brow inquiringly, but Peter immediately waved it away.  
  
"Too much strain, not enough return," he said. "Three dimensions or a thousand, it's not going to affect my work one bit." He broke off, again staring abstractedly at the desk. "However...."  
  
"However?" Spengler prodded, wiping his hands on a napkin and sipping his soda.  
  
Peter squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable. "Every now and then I'll pick up one of those parapsychology textbooks you keep laying around...."  
  
"No!" Egon exclaimed with a barely perceptible smile.  
  
Peter nodded, rubbing his knuckles absently on his white tank top. "Just once in awhile. And I have to admit that a few of the possibilities got me thinking - those dealing with delineating the boundaries of the human will. Precognition, telepathy ..."  
  
"Telekinetics," Egon chanted in response, "pyrokinetics, mental dominance...." He straightened his back, animation fair glowing in his features. "Just think of it, Peter! For all we know, any limits on the human mind could well be self-imposed! That opens up infinite possibilities for study!"  
  
Green eyes met smiling blue and a spark flashed between them. "Interesting possibilities, a few of them even worth exploring on some level. Of course Janice...."  
  
Spengler scowled at that. "Janice," he interrupted firmly, "was a mistake. Sandy Monroe is the genuine article."  
  
"May be the genuine article," Peter refuted, gathering greasy wrappings and dumping them in the trashcan. "However, there's no real way to find out."  
  
Egon returned to his meal, finishing his fillet in two bites then securing the remains in the white paper bag. He studied the oblivious Venkman surreptiously, open speculation flaring in the depths of his sapphire eyes. Finally, he nodded as though in decision and picked up the sheaf of papers he's pushed aside earlier. "Perhaps there is a way to find out," he said at long last.  
  
Peter, having long since buried himself in the morning's New York Times, looked up blankly, having already forgotten the proceeding conversation. "Find out what?"  
  
"Whether or not Sandy is the genuine article." He raised the papers to eye level, turning them until Venkman could see the heading. "Professor Stubbs didn't attend this morning exclusively to witness the initial testing of the EDG. He also wanted to discuss this."  
  
"I can't read the title," Peter said, squinting.  
  
Spengler replaced the papers on his desk, patting them neatly into a stack. "This is a rough outline of a new research endeavor the professor will be undertaking - a planned program investigating any possible connections between human will and our 3-D reality plane. It will be part and parcel of a larger project that will be running for several concurrent years."  
  
Peter goggled. "A major study on ESP?"  
  
"Not necessarily ESP." The blond rose, the dark material of his trousers rustling as he paced the room in short strides. "What Professor Stubbs proposes is to begin a grassroots study on all the effects of the human will upon that human's immediate environment. It will, of course, include ESP, but also bio-electrical energy discharges, the dominance of reason over fantasy - he's even speaking to a creative mathematician, who will factor in the possibilities of the actual establishment of reality. It will be a major undertaking on all levels."  
  
"Creating the universe in six days was a major undertaking," Peter remarked with only mild sarcasm. "What you're talking about is hard-core heavy."  
  
"Very heavy," the other acknowledged, ceasing his pacing six inches from Peter's desk. "But it should provide grist for the research mills for decades to come."  
  
Venkman leaned back in his chair and hiked up the knees of his jeans, then propped his feet on an open drawer. "What exactly are you getting at?" he asked carefully. "Are you inviting me in on this?"  
  
Wood creaked ever so faintly as Egon leaned his palms flat on the desk. "Professor Stubbs has already agreed that my department will handle the study of psycho-kinetic potential - those fields of energy emitted by the brain that do not fall into our normal neural-bio-electrical ranges." He bent forward until he could peer directly into stunned green eyes. "It's not a one-man study, Peter - the grant allows for two researchers, three if necessary, and Professor McKenna has already granted his approval. Are you interested?"  
  
Peter blinked, only now realizing that that last was not a rhetorical question. He dropped his feet, the legs of his chair hitting the floor with a dull thud. "You might want to reconsider before you make that offer," he warned. "Do you really want to go into a major project with a skeptic for a partner? Because ..." He raised a hand, forestalling the physicist's automatic avowal. "... I'll tell you right now, Spengs, I haven't completely dismissed the possibilities of ESP actually existing, but it's not high on my list of things to bet my paycheck on, if you know what I mean. I'll be in as much to disprove its existence as to prove it."  
  
Spengler straightened, nodding his satisfaction with Peter's answer. "That's precisely why I came to you. I'm willing to confess myself quite prejudiced in the direction of belief. More, I know I will be able to prove my theories someday. What I need is something akin to balance - an unbiased approach to the subject. Besides," he went on, waving one long- fingered hand negligently, "paraphysics rather than parapsychology is my main field of study - I shall be feeling my way through much of the psychological ramifications of the project. I believe your expertise on the subject would be useful. Unless you have other plans for the summer?"  
  
Peter ducked his head, dark lashes veiling his eyes. He tapped the desk with his forefinger, breathing deeply. Egon waited patiently until the dark head rose to face him again. "I don't have any plans for the summer," Peter said at last, emphasizing the last word firmly. "Perhaps I'd be interested in looking into the project for the next couple of months."  
  
"After that?" Egon prodded gently.  
  
Peter shrugged. "I'm not looking to abandon Professor McKenna's sleep project come fall. My main field is research psychology. That's what I'll have my doctorate in, in a couple of years."  
  
"A couple of years is a long time," Egon pointed out with a smile. "Quite enough to indulge yourself in more than one interest, Peter. This will at least give you a taste of the other side of the coin. And several college credits, as well."  
  
"Lets me go on working with Sandy, too!" Peter grinned happily. He noticed Egon's doubtful expression, and frowned. "Won't I?"  
  
"I've been meaning to tell you this." The blond returned to his own desk, throwing his lanky form into his seat. "I mentioned Sandy's involvement last night to Professor Stubbs. He's going to sign her with his own lab for further testing."  
  
"Yeah, I just bet he's going to test her," Peter grumbled sourly. "The old lech." He made to say more but broke off when the door opened to admit Ray Stantz, eyes bright, fresh-scrubbed face glowing with health. "Yo, guy! Good to see you at last!"  
  
"Hello, Raymond," Spenger greeted amiably.  
  
"Hi, Peter! Hi, Egon!" Breathless, Ray acknowledged his companions with a hasty nod, then came to stand in front of Egon's desk. "I'm sorry I'm late. The hospital wouldn't let me go any sooner."  
  
Egon examined Ray from head to foot, paying particular attention to the stark white bandage wrapped around his right hand. "How are you feeling?" he asked kindly. "Any aftereffects from the smoke?"  
  
Peter drew a deep breath, the memories of the previous evening rife in the look he turned on the younger man. "Yeah, kid, I'm ... uh ... really sorry about last night. I didn't think anyone was gonna end up hurt."  
  
Ray met that apologetic gaze with a warm smile. "I'm okay, Peter. I wasn't hurt at all." He crinkled his snub nose disgustedly. "I'm just glad I managed to get rid of that awful smell! It stank like the devil all night."  
  
Peter and Egon sat bolt upright, both fixing Stantz with disbelief. "You got rid of the smell?" Egon asked appealingly. "The one from last night?"  
  
Ray nodded puzzled. "Well ... sure. I took a bath in tomato juice this morning. It's what we used to use on skunk back at the farm."  
  
"Tomato juice," Peter caroled, good mood restored.  
  
Egon threw back his head, relieved. "Skunks," he rumbled in harmony. "What else?"  
  
Ray stared but there was obviously more on his mind than his companions' neglected hygiene. He shrugged and turned, wasting no time in crossing the room to the dysfunctional EDG. "How did the.... Oh." He stopped, staring at the remains of the unit with almost comical dismay. "It didn't work, did it," he said, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. "Gosh."  
  
"That's what I've always liked about you, Ray," Peter offered grandly. "Your magnificent grasp of the obvious. Unless that gizmo was supposed to melt all over the table? In that case it worked fine."  
  
"Flaw in the design," Egon admitted candidly, meeting Ray's inquiring look with a rueful shrug. "I shall be attempting a different tack next time. Possibly, one Peter suggested."  
  
"One Peter suggested?" Ray echoed, switching his gaze to the preening psychologist. "Peter Venkman?"  
  
"Whass'a matter, kid?" Peter growled, rising from his chair and advancing menacingly. "You think I ain't got no smarts, 'er something?"  
  
Ray grinned, recognizing the playfulness for what it was. "Sure, Pete, I just figured you'd be using your smarts for the more important things, like sleeping or Sandy...."  
  
"I'll show you important!" Peter howled, leaping. He caught Ray in his rush, grappling the boy into a light head lock and tangling his fingers in the black tee shirt Ray wore. Ray, not unprepared, elbowed Peter firmly in the ribs, thus winning his own release. Peter retreated in defeat.  
  
"I'll have you know, Mr. Boy Genius," Peter said with great dignity, "that Albert Einstein there ..." He jerked his thumb in a grinning Egon's direction. "... and I are going to be collaborating on a project this summer. Under Professor Snooty-Assed Stubbs, I might add."  
  
Surprise creased Ray's round face. He turned from one man to the other, seeking confirmation. "Professor Stubbs invited both of you in on one of his projects? Which one?"  
  
Spengler proffered the outline, his grin transforming itself into a satisfied smirk. "Actually, Professor Stubbs invited me in on the project. I was the one who asked Peter."  
  
"Didn't know you cared," Peter murmured, batting his eyes.  
  
Ray flash scanned the first page, a long, low whistle escaping when he was through. "Wow! This is great! And look at the size of the funding - it's nearly twice what you're pulling from the college!"  
  
"Enough to pay my lab assistant better than I've been able to all year," Egon said meaningfully.  
  
Ray gulped, a timidly hopeful gleam lighting his amber eyes. "You mean ... maybe ... me?"  
  
"I can't think of anyone I'd rather have working for me," the blond returned magnanimously. "If you're interested?"  
  
"Wow!"  
  
Taking both the mild expletive and brilliant smile as acceptance, Egon regarded his two compatriots contentedly, Ray's insuppressible enthusiasm and intuition, and Peter's unpredictable, hard-edged flare; they sang as fitting counterpoint to his own more structured, analytical reason. "Looks like we've got quite a team," he rumbled genially.  
  
He was right.  
  
*** 


End file.
